


The Norway Raid

by LCWells



Series: Rat Patrol [12]
Category: The Rat Patrol
Genre: Espionage, Gen, Rat Patrol - Freeform, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 17:14:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 75,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6815974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LCWells/pseuds/LCWells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A disastrous mission has separated the Rat Patrol. Two are imprisoned, one invalided out, one dead. Or is true? An escape, espionage and mistaken identities lead to the team being reunited and a meeting with Hans Dietrich far from the desert sands...in Norway.</p><p>I wrote three Rat Patrol novels. The chronology is The Norway Raid (1993), The Normandy Raid (2002), and The Last Ride Raid (1995). </p><p>(PARDON MY DUST. I had to OCR the text and keep finding places with drop-out.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Assignment to disaster

Author's note: The North African portion of this story takes place in late October 1942 just before the battle of EI Alamein. The Norway portion of this story takes place in late March¬ April 1943. 

GERMANY-March 1943 

"Sarge!" Mark Hitchcock muttered under his breath as he stared through the barred square window that opened on the central corridor of the cooler. His fair skin still held the darker tint of a man who had spent considerable time in hot climates. 

The handcuffed prisoner, a stocky, dark-haired man, landed against the cement wall of the opposite cell. The iron door slammed shut, leaving the two German officers and several guards in the hallway lit only by h·vo lamps at each end. 

The escorting officer turned to the camp commandant and saluted. "Commandant Gruber?" 

Gruber returned the gesture with alacrity. "Yes, Sir!" 

"I am Oberstleutnant Pregger of the Gestapo. Here is your new prisoner." 

The commandant looked surprised for a split second, then his face returned to blandness. "He is to be left here permanently?" "He stays until I return for him," the Gestapo officer said coldly. "That may be several days to a week." 

"I understand, sir." 

"No, you do not, Commandant! This man has escaped from two different prison camps. He is in the special care of the Gestapo at the moment because he is dangerous. Be careful that you do not let him escape!" Pregger's slight double chin wobbled as he issued orders, and his belly strained at his belt. The tailored uniform couldn't hide that he was out of shape despite the fact that Gestapo officers were supposed to be fit. 

The Commandant nodded. "Yes. sir! His name?" 

"His name is Sergeant Sam Troy. He is an American-" 

"A sergeant!?" Gruber said startled. "An enlisted man did what you say?" 

The Gestapo officer's lips thinned dangerously. "He is still dangerous despite his low rank, He has escaped several times. I leave him in your care. Commandant." 

"All escapees are shot here," Gruber said flatly. "Do not worry, Herr Oberstleutnant." Pregger gave a bark of laughter. "Then I almost hope he tries to escape." 

He shot a malevolent look into the cell at the man who sat quietly eyeing him and Gruber, assessing them. Then the Gestapo officer turned and strolled off down the hall. 

Gruber waved towards the guards, who followed him out of the cell block. 

The blond man waited 'til the hallway was silent before pressing against the iron bars. 

"Sarge! Sarge!" he hissed insistently. He heard sound of stirring, then the clink of handcuffs and the shuffle of feet. Troy looked out of the window of his cell. 

"Hitch?" His voice held a tinge of disbelief. 

The young man's grin stretched from one side of his face to the other. "Hey, Sarge, welcome to the stalag!" 

Troy grinned, his face lightening up. His face was bruised on one side but the marks were almost imperceptible in the dim lighting. "How you doin', Hitch?" 

Private Mark Hitchcock, US Army, and Troy's driver in North Africa, shrugged casually. "Okay, Sarge." 

"Shoulder better?" 

"The camp doc said I'd have an ache on rainy days but other than that it's fine. How about you, Sarge? The Gestapo-" 

Troy's face closed immediately. Hitch knew that look. Troy had taken some damage but would never admit it. "Fine. Just a little tired. What's the plan here, Hitch?" 

"The guards'll be in with food in a little bit. We've got another hour before everyone's confined to barracks," Hitchcock whispered. 

"Why are you doing locked up here?" 

"They caught us digging a tunnel. Said I was a ringleader and threw me in here a week ago." 

Troy chuckled, his face relaxing into a smile. "Were you?" 

Hitchcock grinned back. Then he became serious. "They caught the guys who got out, Sarge. They didn't come back alive. Gruber's serious about shooting escapees." '

'I'll keep that in mind," Troy replied, suddenly sounding tired. His handcuffs clinked on the bars again as he shifted position. "Have you heard anything about Tully?" 

Hitchcock nodded. "Tully was in the same hospital as me for a while, but I got shipped out as soon as the Germans thought I'd survive. He got exchanged for some officer. I got a letter recently; he's back in Kentucky. What about Moffitt, Sarge? Did you see what happened to him?" 

"He's dead, Hitch." 

Hitchcock was struck silent, letting himself sag against the door for a second. For months he had hoped that Troy would say the opposite if they ever met. Even now it was hard to believe. Finally, he whispered , "He's dead?" 

"Yes." Troy's voice had no emotion. "I buried him in the dunes where he died." 

Hitchcock sighed, and leaned against the iron door, feeling more than a little regret. "I'll miss him. He was a stiff-necked limey but, hell, he was one of us." 

"Yep," Troy replied laconically. "Dietrich told the English where to find the body, He wanted to make sure it was found." 

"There was a lot of fighting around there a week later ... ." 

"Dietrich told me the body had been found by the Eighth Army when they overran the place." 

Both men went silent as the door at the end of the cellblock opened and a guard stalked up the corridor, staring suspiciously at them. He made one round then walked out again, slamming the door behind him. 

After the lights had dimmed. Hitchcock went back to the door. "Sarge?" he whispered. 

"What?" 

"How are we gonna escape?" 

 

Troy leaned back against the grimy concrete and laughed. Hitchcock's cheerful inquiry brought back all those months in the desert when he and his patrol had played havoc with the Afrika Korps, and. in particular, with a young German tank commander named Captain Hans Dietrich. Poor Dietrich. For an officer almost constantly humiliated by two roving jeeps of enlisted men, he had managed to retain his sense of humor and honor. Quite an accomplishment. Of course, he had ended up as the winner in their last battle, which had improved his outlook no end. 

They had been a long-ranging independent patrol, taking their orders on the road and coming back into town at irregular intervals to resupply and for a little R&R. They had been outrageously lucky as well, only losing one man in their time. Sergeant Jack Moffitt had been his replacement and an invaluable one who'd fit into the more relaxed American system without changing his English point-of-view. 

Intelligence had occasionally "borrowed" Moffitt for crucial missions, but he had always come back to join them until last job. If Lady Luck had been their best friend for months, she'd turned her back that day. 

NORTH AFRICA-October 1942 

The Patrol had spent a week scouting the mountains overlooking El Alamein. Any army attacking the dug.in Germans had to get through their mine fields. It was suicidal. The Allies had to figure out how the German defenses were placed to attack. Troy had a feeling that he knew their orders for the next couple of weeks or months. Somehow, they'd have to find a way so the Allies could safely transverse the five miles of explosives to reach the German lines. He had seen the British build-up under General Bernard Montgomery, and knew an attack had to be coming at any time. 

At that moment, they were to meet a Colonel Ramsey from US Army Intelligence for a briefing in a nondescript Arab town with no pronounceable name. The small town bustled with tanks and trucks, accents from all over the world floating on the air as the speakers alternately cursed or laughed as they moved the flotsam of the armies all over North Africa. British accents dominated. 

Troy glanced at Moffitt who was standing by his jeep, looking around with a slightly reminiscent smile. His fellow sergeant would fit right in with the officers heading for a local bistro across the square. Troy knew that Moffitt had joined up as an enlisted man to shock his upper·class parents, He was over·educated for his current job. Troy occasionally wondered what kept him there beside inertia, and orders. Not that he minded; Moffitt was the perfect fit into their little group, He just wondered how much longer the little group would fit in with Moffitt. 

"Troy!" Moffitt called breaking into his musing. In the seat next to him, Private Tully Pettigrew, his driver, chewed on a toothpick as he waited for their next move. Troy had never known Tully to be anything but patient except in action. Most of the time he wondered what Tully was thinking of the rest of them. 

"What, Moffitt?" 

"We've got company," the Englishman remarked, nodding at a new jeep that pulled up in front of the crumbling white painted bricks of Divisional Headquarters. Two strangers climbed out. The dark·haired leader had a rangy build, rather like Moffitt's, but broader in the shoulders which strained against the slightly too small shirt. He looked like he had a small pot belly as well. The shorter man had curly red hair, and violently sunburned skin and dark eyes. His gaze ran over the other jeeps, taking note of them, then he followed the other man up the stairs. They both wore British Army khaki. 

"Wonder where they came from, Sarge," commented Hitchcock who leaned on the wheel of Troy's jeep, his sand-bleached hair hidden under his red French Foreign Legion cap. He blew a bubble from his chewing gum, and popped it. "Looks like new blood." 

"Probably England, Hitch," Troy mused aloud. "Not used to the heat down here." Both men's backs were soaked in sweat. 

''They need to get some clothes that fit,” Moffitt observed. "And they'll have cases of sunstroke if they don't get hats. They're headed inside." 

"So are we. Come on." 

Troy led the way. Moffitt on his heels. Tully and Hitchcock exchanged dubious looks but climbed out of the jeeps and followed. 

They exchanged salutes with the interior guards and were escorted to a room where the other pair and Colonel Ramsey were staring at a map of North Africa. 

"Glad you could make it. Troy," Ramsey said harshly as he looked up. "You're late." 

Troy saluted sharply. "We ran into a convoy just before our recall. It took us a little while to break free." 

"Probably your friend, Captain Dietrich," Ramsey said in disgust. "He's been roaming around getting in our way. Why don 't you just finish him next time? Just shoot him. Troy, and put us all out of misery." 

Troy stared at him in disbelief. Was the Colonel condoning cold-blooded murder? He must have had too much of the North African sun. Then again, it was wartime .... "He's an extremely difficult man to capture and keep. Next time, perhaps, Colonel?" 

"Let's hope he doesn't interfere with this mission," the rangy stranger cut in. Troy saluted him, seeing his insignia, receiving a salute in return. ''I'm Lieutenant Colonel Peter Alexander. Royal Special Reserves." 

"Sergeant Troy, US Army," Troy replied seeing Moffitt's reaction out of the corner of his eye. Alexander's accent was sharp enough to almost be exaggerated. The last time Troy had heard anything like it was in a Shakespeare play. 

"Sergeant Moffitt, Eighth Army, Scots Greys," Moffitt supplied, saluting. His accent was even heavier than usual. He and Alexander stared suspiciously at each other for a second. 

"Let's get started. This is your mission, Troy," the colonel cut in mercilessly. "It's scheduled for the next two days." 

Two days? Small window of opportunity. thought Troy. moving closer to the map. _What was happening in two days?_

The colonel rapped on the map. "Look at this. EI Alamein is secured by the sea on the north, and the Qattara marshes in the south. Rommel holds the East and can withdraw his troops that way. We're here in the West. All that keeps us from him are the mines. We have a spy in the German camp, codenamed Felix, who has information that we desperately need. He has information about the minefields." 

"And this man can help us with that?" Troy questioned. 

"What he brings will help us tremendously," Alexander said soberly. "Felix is one of the best spies we have."

"He's being withdrawn then?" Moffitt asked. "By the Germans?"

"They suspect him of being a traitor which, of course, he is. His convoy will be leaving EI Alamein at dawn and we're counting on you, Sergeant Troy, to cut that convoy apart without killing our contact." Tully shot Hitchcock a look of disbelief. 

Hitchcock glanced back and raised his eyebrow. 

Troy put his hands on his hips, and stared at them in disbelief. "How exactly will we tell Felix from all the others?" 

"That's why I'm coming," Alexander cut in. "I know Felix. My driver here. Lieutenant Partridge, and I, will accompany you to take Felix off your hands." The red-haired driver nodded, politely. He was studying Hitchcock and Tully inquisitively. Troy sensed their discomfort. 

"After you save him, Troy, take off and make sure the pursuit doesn' t follow Alexander," the Colonel interrupted. "That's your most important role." 

"How long do we have to keep them busy, sir?" 

"For as long as it takes to get Felix to safety," Alexander said flatly. "I know your record, Sergeant. You can do it." 

Troy felt ironically honored. It was a suicide mission, just the sort he specialized in. He hoped the patrol would survive the experience. 

Moffitt moved closer to the table. studying the map. "So, where exactly do we meet this Felix?" 

Alexander stood beside him and pointed. "Here." 

Troy was struck by the resemblance between Moffitt and Alexander. They could be related by blood. He suddenly felt chilled. Someone just walked over my grave. _This is going to be a bad one._

"I don't like this," Hitchcock mumbled. Troy caught it and sent him a stern glare but didn't say anything. He agreed with the private. He didn't like it either. 

****

They camped in a ravine not far from the route the convoy was supposed to take the next day. Partridge lit a fire and began making dinner, as the others scouted the area. The smell of an appetizing stew drifted over the night air. 

"You can cook?" Moffitt asked, sniffing appreciatively. 

"I learned from a beautiful girl in Dublin," Partridge said with a laugh. "I appreciate Irish stew and Guinness." 

"You're Irish?" asked Troy. 

"Not a bit. English, American, a trace of German...I prefer to think of myself as an all-American mongrel," Partridge replied, taking a mess kit from Tully and spooning the stew into it. He handed it back, and took Alexander's. "Colonel?"

Troy's ears went up. The request had a slight edge to it. There was more to their relationship than that of just partners, and he didn't like it. Partridge scarcely ever looked at the Colonel, who seemed to be always aware of Partridge, as if he were watching him for trouble. 

"Thank you," Alexander said, taking back his plate. He eyed the stew for a second, then glanced at Tully, The private was happily eating his slew, and Alexander followed suit. Troy doubted that Tully even noticed that he was being used as a food tester. "Been around here very long. Colonel?" 

Alexander swallowed. "Not very. I came in a few months ago. How about yourself, Sergeant?" 

"Been out here for months. When did you get here. Lieutenant Partridge?" Troy asked to include the other man in the conversation. 

Partridge shrugged. "I was stationed up on the coast waiting for him to get here." He jerked his thumb at Alexander, who smiled thinly. "Couple of months." 

"Then you've worked together before?" 

"Yes," Alexander said simultaneously with Partridge's ·'No.'· 

They stared at each other for a second, then Partridge dropped his gaze. and went back to scraping the pot. 

"We were together in France." 

"Dunkirk?" Moffitt asked, his voice sounding interested. Troy didn't spare him a look. 

"No, after that." Alexander said easily. "Vichy France for a while, then out to North Africa." 

"At different times," Moffitt asked casually. "You must have left France separately." 

"Yes, at different times," Alexander agreed. "I suspect you thought I was dead, Partridge?" 

The man gave a slight tight smile. "I heard the machine gun, Colonel, and saw you fall. I had to finish the mission alone," 

"Indeed," Alexander said with a slight edge. "Luckily, I wasn't badly wounded." 

"Then you're commandos?" Troy asked. 

Partridge shrugged. "Fancy word for soldier-spies, Sergeant. I've been all over Europe in my day. Belgium, Austria, Switzerland ... before the war, that is." 

"You're very curious, Troy," Alexander commented. "How long have all of you been out here?" 

"An eternity," Moffitt laughed. "I got out at Dunkirk and then 'was sent here when they found out I had an archeology degree and had gone excavating down here." 

"Back to the scorpions and mummies," Tully added unexpectedly. 

Moffitt chuckled. "I always wondered why I never had the luck to find a mummy." 

Troy hadn't realized that Tully knew how long Moffitt had been in the desert. He didn't know what the Englishman and his driver discussed though Troy had been dragged into numerous bazaars in search of Egyptian scarab or ancient Greek statues to send home in packages. It almost seemed like Moffitt was teaching Tully about ancient history. Troy would never have thought that the laconic driver would be interested in that kind of stuff. 

"You have a degree, then?" Partridge asked, looking curiously at Moffitt's insignia. 

Moffitt nodded. "My doctorate from Cambridge. A Ph.D." 

Tully dropped his head and smiled. 

"Then why are you in the ranks?" Partridge asked abruptly. "Seems to me with your education, you should be an officer." 

Moffitt eyed him calmly but with a perceptible chill. Beside him, Tully looked as if he wanted to take the lieutenant to one side and teach him some manners. "Family reasons, Lieutenant," Moffitt finally answered. 

"Your family drove you into the ranks?" Alexander said curiously. Troy noted, coming from him it didn't sound impertinent, just interested. 

"So to speak," Moffitt murmured. ”Do you have a degree, Lieutenant?" 

Partridge nodded. "Yeah, in engineering. I finished it just before the war. American school. How about the rest of you? Any college boys here?" 

Hitchcock smiled humorlessly. From his stance, he didn't really like Partridge, but he had had politeness drilled into him. "I would have if I hadn't joined up and sent here." 

"How about you, Troy?" Alexander asked. 

Troy shook his head. He wasn't quite sure how to defuse the growing tension. 

“Nope. My father died, and I went out to make a living after high school." 

Tully pursed his lips, and clambered to his feet, avoiding the next question. "Reckon I'll take the first watch, Hitch." 

“I’ll relieve you in four hours," Hitchcock replied. 

Moffitt watched Tully's retreat then glanced at Troy. "We should have changed the subject, Troy."

"Did we upset him?" Alexander asked politely. 

"That's all right, Colonel," Troy said in a flat tone. "Tully's a bit sensitive on education. He had to leave early to help with the family farm. And run moonshine, He's one of the best drivers around here," 

"Where did he come from?" Alexander asked. 

"Kentucky," Moffitt commented. “I'd like to visit there someday. It sounds very different from England...or here." The refined Englishman and the moonshiner's kid had an understanding born the moment that Tully had helped rescue Moffitt's father, instead of following Troy's orders to forget the captive man. If there was anyone who Moffitt trusted, it was Tully. And he didn't like anyone picking on his driver. 

"It's different all rightn" Troy said with a chuckle. “Not a lot of sand over there." 

"Your plate, sergeant?" Partridge asked, holding out his hand.

''I’m done, thanks, Lieutenant. So you came from France before this, eh? That explains your sunburn."

"Pardon?" Alexander asked politely, looking at his fingers. 

"You're peeling. You haven't been in the desert long," Troy informed him. 

Partridge heaped sand on the fire to kill the flames. "Told you to use the lotion, Colonel. You've been in the sun too much." 

"Long enough to know what’s going on round here," Alexander said casually, his gaze shifting away from Troy’s. "There won't be a big push for a while. Rommel's too strongly dug in."

Troy sensed more to that casual statement than it sounded. What was Alexander trying to tell him? He glanced at Partridge but the man had his head down. There was no help there. "I think unless we find the way through that mine field, we won't be attacking soon, sir." 

“Exactly. You've set the watch at the other end. Sergeant?" 

“Yes, sir. I’ll be taking the first one, and Moffitt will be relieving me." 

"When do you want us to stand watch?" Partridge asked, looking up. 

"That won't be necessary," Troy said. "We're used to this. Get a good night's sleep, Colonel, Lieutenant." 

Partridge's face showed a flash of frustration but he broke into a smile, and held out his hand. "Then at least let me do the cleaning up. Your plate, Sergeant?”

"Thank you," Troy replied. 

Alexander shivered. The African night brought the temperature down swiftly, and his thin shirt was scant help against the chill. Moffitt went to the back of his jeep and pulled out a long coat from the back seat. "Try this, Colonel." He held it out. 

Alexander slid it on. It was snug in the shoulders but fastened securely in front and fell to mid·thigh. "Thank you." 

"'Fraid you've dropped a rank, sir," Partridge said in a light tone. 

Alexander chuckled. "But I'm warmer." 

Troy sensed there was something more to this mission than rescuing Felix but he couldn't figure it out. The teasing between Partridge and Alexander was barbed with a lot left unsaid. 

"Get some rest," he said finally, standing up. “We’ve got an early call tomorrow." 

"I'll be back in a second," Moffitt promised and vanished towards where Tully was keeping watch. 

Alexander raised an eyebrow at Troy. "Worried about his friend?"

"Maybe. Maybe not," Troy replied stolidly. "Tully's from Appalachia, Colonel. He doesn't let a lot out." 

"I'm sorry if I made him feel uncomfortable," Alexander said with commendable grace. "Isn't it strange to find someone like Sergeant Moffitt in the ranks?" 

Troy shrugged. He wasn't going to explain why Moffitt had joined up as an enlisted man, That was his business. "His choice. In the meantime, why don't you bed down over there?" Troy pointed to some dark shadows deeper in the ravine. 

"Do you have the sharper rocks there. Sergeant?" Alexander asked with a slight smile. 

Troy heard Moffitt returning, the sound of his footsteps softened by sand. By the Englishman's expression, whatever had been said had calmed him down. Whatever had happened with Tully was over now. 

"You're out of the way of the change of watch," Troy answered in a flat tone. "Get some rest, sir. You too, Lieutenant Partridge. Tomorrow's going to be a long day.” 

 

***

 

The wind was picking up. It ruffled Hitchcock's hair as he took off his Foreign Legion cap. and brushed back his hair, then resettled the cap firmly. A fine spray of sand brushed Troy's face. then dissipated. 

Beyond them, Alexander was leaning forward, holding up his binoculars. He was still wearing Moffitt's jacket which was sharply creases on the back. Moffitt suddenly raised his head and looked around. Then he cocked his head. and listened. 

"What is it?” Troy called softly.

"Listen!" 

"The wind?'

“There's a storm coming in, Troy!" 

"There's more than that coming in! Look!" 

The German convoy emerged out of the scrubby undergrowth and sand dunes following the road. The hot midday sun glinted off the polished grills. It was comprised of the usual armored car and a half-track, followed by one canvas-covered truck, and a truck full of soldiers. He overheard Moffitt comment to Tully that they stirred enough sand in the air to be a division. Tully nodded, his eyes squinting into the light. 

“Troy, Felix is in the first truck. The one with the flapping canvas. He should be in the cab,” Alexander said in a low voice. Troy looked through his binoculars and identified the truck. Without the loose canvas, it would just appear to be another anonymous truck. 

"Hope you're right, ColoneL" 

Alexander smiled. "Don't trust me, Troy?" 

Troy was vividly reminded of the first time he had met Moffitt. He had been put off by the cultured British accent and the immaculate uniform, and had generally felt that this was another body foisted off on him just because he had lost a man. It hadn't taken long for Moffit to prove himself. “Time to get started, Colonel?" 

Alexander nodded, and pulled up the black scarf up around his nose. Wearing the jacket and with his dark hair and build, he bore an uncanny resemblance to Moffitt. If Partridge had worn an American helmet versus the bandanna with which he tied back his curly red hair. Troy might have mistaken the pair for Moffitt and Tully. 

Moffitt leaned forward and took the cap off his gun barrel, then settled against the back of the jeep, well-accustomed to bracing himself against the kick of the Browning. He slid down his goggles. Tully glanced over at Hitchcock, and as one, they started their engines. The noise reverberated loudly. 

Alexander's jeep roared to life and the three jeeps started for the convoy. 

Troy had ordered the Colonel to stay out of the way until the worst of the fighting was over, It \vas bad enough that he had to come along to identify Felix, but if they had to protect him as well, they were sunk. 

Tully sent his jeep into a circle that would bring him and Moffitt up on the other side, while Hitch aimed straight at the half-track. 

The gun bucked under Troy's hands as he fired at the Kubeiwagens, then at the half¬track. Bullets pockmarked the steel vehicle and men screamed as they died. Through a blur of sand and dust. he saw the first car grind to a stop. and the half-track plowed into the back of it. Felix's truck went into a fast curve that took it directly in the face of Moffitt's attack. It was riddled in seconds, leaving the cab untouched. It screeched to a halt. 

Unexpectedly, the other truck aimed towards Troy and Hitchcock, a German soldier leaning out of the cab, firing his gun. Hitchcock wove a pattern that kept him out of the direct path of the bullets, but Troy felt one pluck his sleeve and burn his skin. That guy was too close. He aimed and fired the heavy fifty, and had the satisfaction of seeing the windshield splinter and the driver and passenger jerk as they died. The engine sputtered to silence as the driver's foot came off the accelerator, and the sharp cut of the wheel as he flopped down on the front seat turned the truck on its side, partially protecting the soldiers in the half-track. They weren't all dead, Troy noted grimly, seeing the light reflect off their gun barrels as they aimed at him. 

"Sarge!" Hitchcock hauled the wheel to the right and headed for the tail end of the armored car at the end of the convoy. 

Troy turned his attention to the car just in time to see it virtually disintegrate as Moffitt threw a hand grenade into it. The Englishman had been a fair hand at pitching before he met the Rat Patrol, but now he was a candidate for a baseball team. With the assistance of Hitch and Tully, he had improved in the last few months. 

That only left the half-track and Felix's trucks. 

Troy tapped Hitchcock and pointed towards the trucks. "Let's stop-" 

A chatter of machine gun fire cut off his yell. The surviving Germans were attacking. He swiveled the gun and fired. 

Alexander's jeep approached the half-track. but dodged out of the way of the stream of bullets. Returning fire, he was hampered by the fact that Felix's truck was still partially in his line of attack. 

Moffitt thundered around the destroyed armored car and saw the problem. With a thump on the shoulder, he directed Tully to go around so that they could get ahead of the truck and fire at the wounded half-track. 

One of the soldiers threw a grenade at Moffitt's jeep. Before Troy could even yell a warning, it exploded six inches above the ground in front of the jeep, overturning it and throwing Moffitt head-over-heels into the hard sandy dirt. Tully collapsed against the other front seat as the jeep landed on its side spilling water and gasoline over the dry earth. 

Troy gaped at the appalling sight. A second later, he was reminded that there was a war on when a bullet plucked his desert hat off his head. With cold vengeance in his heart, he aimed the machine gun at the half-track and fired full-blast. The men died and the half-track slowed, then came to a grinding stop. 

Hitchcock roared around to where Felix's truck was now stationary and brought the jeep to a stop. Troy had it in his sights. 

"Give up! Surrender!" Troy yelled. Nothing from the truck. The wind whistled over the dry land and through the holes in the canvas where the bullets had riddled it. 

Alexander approached cautiously, holding his machine gun ready. 

"Surrender!" he snarled. The door on the right side, facing Troy. opened and a young man, barely in his twenties, climbed out, his hands raised. He was trembling like a leaf. "Kamerad." 

"The other one!" Troy snarled. "Get him out." 

"He's dead," the German replied. "I killed him," 

Troy saw one hand was red with blood. "Colonel!" 

Alexander came around the half-track, still prepared to shoot. He let the gun sink slightly when he saw the German. "Felix!" 

"Colonel," Felix replied, clicking his heels. "Colonel?" 

“That your man, Colonel?" Troy asked harshly. 

"Yes. I'll take care of him, Troy," Alexander called. 

The victory was sour to Troy. "I'm going to check Moffitt and Tully," he said to Hitchcock, who nodded. After Troy jumped out of the back, the private climbed up to the machine gun ready to fire. 

Troy headed for the upset jeep. Praying that he'd find either man alive. He didn't have much hope. The rising wind ruffled his dark hair, and cooled his bare skin. He could hear the sound of sand scratching on his goggles. 

He hadn't reached Moffitt's jeep when he heard gunfire behind him. Not the heavy machine gun of his jeep. but the lighter firing of a pistol. 

"Sarge!" Hitchcock yelled. 

Troy swiveled. his pistol held ready, and started back. 

Alexander was writhing on the ground, the sand turning dark with blood. Hitchcock wasn't on the top of the jeep. He must have fallen behind it. Was he dead? Felix watched horrified as the truck's driver jumped out of the cab and slammed his gun against the informer's head. The man dropped. Whoever had donated the blood on Felix's hand. it hadn't been the driver. Felix must have been too afraid to tell Alexander that he was a prisoner, not a free man. 

Troy rolled behind one of the huge tires of the truck and aimed at the driver who dodged back against the open door. In the sudden silence, Troy heard the roar of armored cars coming from the dunes. It seemed that the Germans were sending reinforcements. Damn, was this a trap? Troy rolled behind the truck and calculated his odds. They were rotten. If he could get Felix into the jeep, he could escape. But first he had to take out the driver! 

He thought momentarily about Moffitt and Tully, then put them out of his mind. Dead or alive, they weren't part of the equation. Hearing cautious footsteps approaching. he gritted his teeth and lay still. 

Then he realized that he was gritting more than his teeth. Sand was being blown into his mouth despite his tight lips. Moffitt's sandstorm was coming on fast. Soon he wouldn't be able to see the enemy. He rolled towards the front of the truck, not seeing anyone. Cautiously he moved over the blowing sand to where he had seen Alexander go down. No man. No jeep. Nothing but darkness. 

Somewhere, he realized he had turned the wrong way. The storm was howling now, slowing down his senses. He paused and looked both ways. Something loomed to his right. He went towards it. 

A man's hand slammed down on his head, forcing his face into a sand dune. He grasped at the wrist, and struggled, getting in a swift kick. The man grunted and let go a little, letting Troy see him clearly. It was Partridge. The man slammed his pistol against Troy's temple and the sergeant went out like a light. 

AMERICA-March 1943 

With an asthmatic wheeze, an old train blowing steam from its engine pulled into the siding of the small wooden station. Tall, uncut grass shimmered in the unexpected spring heal as the temperature rose with the sun. On each side of the station, dogwoods were decked out with white flowers and green leaves, waving among forests of dark-leafed oaks and ashes. 

The station manager raised his hand in greeting as the engineer leaned out of the cab. 

"Hey. Fred." 

"Mornin', Robbie. How's it goin'?" The manager had a distinct Southern drawl. 

"Good. Dropping one for you." The engineer sounded like he was from the Midwest. 

"Eh?" The manager looked at the tall, lean soldier who stepped off the stubby passenger car crammed in before the three boxcars. He helped down an old man, who shook hands thrn tottered off down the platform to where a young mother, small child in tow, was awaiting him beside a battered truck. Several workmen, eyeing the stranger suspiciously, were unloading one of the box cars of empty boxes, and putting baskets of early spring produce in their place. Everything was normal except for the new arrival who looked alertly around him. 

The station manager suspiciously watched the soldier. He didn't look like any American soldier Paulie had ever seen. The tailored uniform had an odd cut. He'd seen something like that in a movie newsreel a couple of weeks ago but he couldn't place it. "Who's he?" 

"Ask him yourself. Doesn't talk much," Fred replied shortly, and went back inside the cab. The manager walked up to the stranger as he picked up the bag he'd dropped to help the ladies off the train. "Can I help you, young fella?" 

The soldier eyed him judiciously. He wasn't as young as the manager had first thought. His skir was tanned darkly, and there 'were fine lines around the mouth and eyes from sun' exposure. His composure went far beyond his years. "I'm looking for Tully Pettigrew." His accent was clipped and foreign, and straight out of Hollywood. 

"Pettigrew? He's up in the hills." 

"Is he there now?" 

"Sure, Lives with his family." The man's eyes widened. "You one of the guys who was with him...wherever he was?" 

The soldier smiled slightly. "Wherever we were. How can I find him?" 

"Fastest way is to take that path over there," the station manager pointed. "Bit of a climb but it'll bring you out on a main road. Take a right, and at a big white rock, turn left. Pettigrew's place is about a half-mile on. Leave your bag here. I'll look after it." 

The soldier looked at the worn leather bag in his hand, then shook his head. "I'll take it, with me." 

"Be a climb with it," the manager warned. "I promise, I'll keep it safe in the station. Put it under lock and key." He held out his hand. 

A second's assessment, then the soldier held out the bag. "I'd appreciate that, Mister .... '· 

"Parkins. Rob Parkins." 

"Thank you, sir." The soldier walked away towards the path. 

Parkins waited until he was out of sight before checking the label on the bag. Lieutenant Colonel Peter Alexander, Oxford, England. "Good God. He's a Brit! And a colonel too!" 

GERMANY-March 1943 

Hitchcock said in a low voice. "I saw you heading for Moffitt and Tully. I was watching Felix." He hated the memory of that last raid. It was bad enough to see Tully and Moffitt on the edge of his vision, their unmoving bodies light against the dark storm. He kept his eyes on Alexander who was approaching Felix, his gun held ready. 

"Then the driver came up with a gun. I saw him just before he fired. Couldn't get around in time." 

That second's notice had saved his life. He had seen the driver's cap come up as the man fired his pistol through the cracks in the windshield. The bullet caught Hitchcock in the shoulder, sending him spinning back onto the hard ground. He heard the gun go off again, and again. He shut his eyes and prayed. "I thought I was gonna die, Sarge. Then the sandstorm came in. I knew if I didn’t move, I'd smother. Covered my face as best I could." Then it had been all darkness, and a howling wind, and the feel of sand everywhere. "I blacked out. Came to in a German field hospital wrapped in bandages. What happened, Sarge?" 

Troy replied reluctantly. "I was nearly buried too. I must've looked like a dune to Dietrich and his troops when they pulled up in one of their trucks. They'd had to stop to because of the storm." 

"Dietrich!" Hitchcock sounded surprised. 

"He was just doing surveillance until we attacked. He heard the noise but it took a while through the storm to reach the convoy." 

NORTH AFRICA-October 1942 

Troy was on his hands and knees, coughing sand out of his lungs, when he heard the truck. Two soldiers grabbed his arms and held him securely. Dietrich took the pistol from Troy's holster and put it in his belt, then crossed his arms. He was wearing his goggles and a scarf around his face, which he pulled away from his mouth to speak. "Sergeant Troy?" 

“Captain Dietrich. Fancy meeting you here," Troy wheezed, and then coughed to clear his throat. He was dizzy. Dietrich snapped a command in German and one soldier let go of Troy's arm, pulled out a canteen and handed it to him. 

"Are you feeling better. Sergeant?" Strangely enough. Dietrich almost sounded sympathetic. 

Troy stiffened. No matter how he felt, he didn't need Dietrich's sympathy or pity. "Yeah, Just fine," The captain looked around at the buried vehicles. The storm had passed and the air was no longer full of sand. "It would appear that you are very unlucky, Sergeant Troy." 

"My men..." 

"We will find them," Dietrich promised, his voice reassuringly professional. "In the meantime, Om afraid I will have to tie you up, Sergeant. I am taking no chances." 

"Let me help you dig," Troy said with a trace of urgency. "I won't try to escape." 

Dietrich studied him intently. "Your men? You don't believe they are still alive, Sergeant!" 

"Desert rats are tough, Captain." 

"I know," Dietrich retorted in an exasperated tone, "I have had to deal with you for months! Go ahead, Sergeant. Your jeeps are over there." He waved to where a jeep was lying on its side, near Felix's truck, "And over there." He waved back the way he had come. 

Troy kept his face expressionless as he walked over to the overturned jeep. It had been Alexander’s jeep. No one in the front seat. Where were Alexander or Partridge? Troy saw a pile of sand to one side. A buried body? 

Dietrich grabbed his arm, holding him back. "Uncover it," he barked at the soldiers, 

It took thirty seconds of digging to show a German uniform, then the face of the dead man, Troy recognized the driver. He looked like he had been smothered by the sand while unconscious, until they uncovered the stab wound lower down on the torso. Dietrich glanced at Troy. "Someone used a knife here. Were there any other commandos other than your team, Sergeant?" Troy didn't let himself react. He wasn't going to tell them anything they could figure out for themselves. 

The captain nodded, then glanced around, "So there were." 

Troy's head went up suspiciously, and he stared at Dietrich. Why did it have to be Dietrich who had caught them? They had been playing cat-and-mouse for too long; they knew each other far too well. Damn it! A soldier called them the other side of the trucks. Dietrich's eyes narrowed behind his goggles and he replied, then turned to his prisoner. "Sergeant Troy?" 

Troy turned, chilled at the compassionate tone. Dietrich had become sympathetic again, which meant he felt sorry for Troy. There was only one situation in which where Dietrich would do that, if he and his forces found Troy's men dead. 

His heart sank but he didn't let his feeling show. Then, he saw in disgust, Dietrich could read him. There was definite sympathy there. The captain waved at him to lead the way. 

The man protecting his face with his arm and lying in a curled position. It was Hitchcock. The soldiers bent over him rattled a sentence at Dietrich who raised an eyebrow. "You're lucky, Sergeant. He's still alive." 

Troy let out a slight sigh of relief. "For how long, Captain?" 

"We'll get him to the hospital as soon as we can." Dietrich promised, turning to the other body lying nearby. "Careful. Sergeant Troy. It's not pretty. I believe it is Sergeant Moffitt." 

Troy recognized the worn jacket with its patched shoulder. It belonged to Moffitt. The body was unrecognizable though. The skull had been pulped by some automobile running over it. dragging bits of black curly hair and brain for several feet. The black scarf was soaked in blood, and the ground around was splattered like a spill of red ink. 

He knelt down for a second and saw shiny dog tags. He picked them up and looked carefully. His heart froze for a second, then gave an extra loud thump. 

The markings on the dog tags said the blood type was A positive. This wasn't Moffitt. It had to be Colonel Alexander lying there. Of course, the Colonel had borrowed Moffitt's jacket! He didn't blame Dietrich for believing it was Moffitt. The hair, the build, the jacket with the British patches. Troy instinctively tried to hide the realization from Dietrich. "It's him," he said, lying through his teeth. 

Another soldier called, and Dietrich turned. his head. Troy leaned forward and pulled free the tags, the broken chain sliding between his fingers. The captain didn't notice, though the German sentry who had helped uncover the body stared at Troy strangely. "You have another survivor, Sergeant. I believe it is Private Pettigrew." 

"Tully?" Troy dropped the chain into the welter of blood that had been Alexander's face. pocketed the dog tags casually, and limped towards the jeep drawing Dietrich with him. 

The soldier saluted as they both came up. 

Tully's chest was blood-soaked and Troy could see bullet holes in his shoulder and chest as he lay crumpled in the front seat. He wasn't a sand-encrusted mummy like Hitchcock since the jeep had provided partial protection against the storm. 

''I'm sorry. but he might not make it," Dietrich said, his voice professional once again. "Put the wounded in the truck! Be careful with them."

"You're taking great care of us," Troy replied grimly. 

"Of course. You are prisoners of war," Dietrich reproved. "I follow the Geneva Convention, Sergeant. I regret the death of Sergeant Moffitt. He was a good soldier and a worthy adversary.” 

Troy kept his face straight, though he sensed the sincerity in Dietrich's tone. "He was a good friend as well."

Dietrich nodded understandingly. "I will make sure his body is returned to the British." 

"Thank you. I'll appreciate it." Troy looked around the battle scene one last time. 

Hitch's jeep was missing. Alexander had been run over, Felix was missing. Partridge was missing. Moffitt was missing. Where Moffitt had been thrown, there was no heap of sand that would have marked his body. Who knew what had really happened? However, Troy wasn’t the one who was going to tell Dietrich anything about this mission. Let him think Moffitt was dead and the mission gone sour. 

AMERICA-March 1943 

The hot sun sank through the heavy khaki of Alexander's jacket as he slowly overheated. A trickle of perspiration ran down his back, dampening the shirt under the heavier jacket. Il was a steep climb and further than the station manager had assured him. 

Reaching the white rock, he sank down on it shaded by a willow tree. The long strands of spring greenery draped themselves around him in the light breeze. He took off his cap and ran his hand through his short black hair which was curling in the humidity. A small puffy cloud dodged in and out of the hills but it gave little relief from the sun. 

It hadn't been this hot in the North African desert. There it had been dry heat, not the sticky wetness that saturated his shirL He wished he'd had his old canteen, but that had been left behind along with so many other things. Maybe Tully would have some water. 

Around him, he saw an abundance of vegetation. long honeysuckle with a few blossoms that early bees dived into for their intoxicated fill. Kudzu and ivy, tangling in the undergrowth and "vinding around the oaks and small pines that crowded each side of the mountain path. Some trees had more vine than leaves. Broken branches were homes to chipmunks and field mice that darted across the hard-rutted path. Somewhere behind him he heard the rat-ta-tat of a woodpecker among the rotted trunks. It had been a difficult winter and now the earth was coming back to life. 

He rubbed the back of his neck and stretched, his body protesting after the hike. At least his shoulder and back didn't ache here. Cold weather exacerbated his war injuries. "Hey! Leggo!" The voices up ahead were young and male. Two, maybe three boys. It sounded like a squabble. 

He clambered to his feet and walked around the corner. 

The two boys were in their mid-teens. The smaller boy had a burly build and strong muscles amply shown by his lack of a shirt. His pants were held up by suspenders. The other boy was a little more willowy, and taller, though probably younger by several years. Several books were lying on the ground nearby. one large one spilling out of a book bag. Both had their fists clenched. 

"What's this?" Alexander called using his best official tone. Startled. both turned around, One look at Alexander's uniform. and the small boy took off through the bushes that lined the road. The other one stared at him suspiciously, reluctantly lowering his hands. He looked wary. "Thanks. Mister." 

Alexander's eyes narrowed. The shock of wheat hair was familiar even if it was a shade darker than the one he knew. "Are you related to Tully Pettigrew? Who me you?" 

Mack smiled slightly. "Tully's my uncle. My name is Mack Pettigrew." 

"Lieutenant Colonel Peter Alexander." He held out his hand. 

Mack shook it. "Happy to meet you, sir." 

"Is this the way to Tully's?" Alexander asked politely, as the boy began to collect his books. 

"Yeah. Take you there," Mack stuffed the last book into his knapsack and slung it over his shoulder. 

Alexander picked up something that had fallen out of Mack's pocket. "This yours?"' 

The arrowhead glinted in the sunlight. 

"Yeah." Mack took it from his hand and stuffed it in his pocket. "I got a few of 'em back home." 

"Are you interested in archeology?" 

“Yep.” The boy led the way up the path. "I read up on it a bit." 

“So did your uncle,” Alexander remarked, keeping up easily. His long legs more than made up for the boy's lively pace. 

"I know. He bought a book about it by some guy named Moffitt." 

The soldier checked for a second, then walked on. "There's an English archeologist called Moffitt." 

"I know. Tully said he met him. Said he was a great guy." They rounded a corner and stopped. 

"Here it is," Mack said with a touch of defensiveness as if he expected Alexander to make a derogatory comment. 

The wooden two-level farmhouse had a rambling roof with a center gable and a veranda that ran around it on three sides. It needed a coat of fresh whitewash, and someone had repaired the roof in wood that hadn't weathered yet, making it look like it had been bandaged. A huge redbud tree vied with a glorious white dogwood and a laundry line was stretched between the two. A woman in a worn, brown plaid dress was hanging a sheet, her back to them. 

"Tully!" Mack yelled, startling Alexander. “Hey, Tully! You got a visitor!" The woman turned and stared at them. a clothespin still in her mouth. She put the shirt she was holding back into the woven basket at her feet. A man opened an inner wooden door, then the rusted screen door. and stepped out onto the veranda. The wood creaked under his feet. 

The man raised his hand. squinting against the noonday sun. Tully wore a faded red shirt, worn pants with suspenders, and patched, battered boots. His hair was even lighter than it had been in the desert. 

"Hello, Tully." 

Tully was motionless. "You're alive?" 

"Still alive, Tully." 

"What's up?" Mack asked in puzzlement, glancing up at the tall man beside him. 

"Thought you were dead," Tully observed. "Never heard from you." 

"That wasn't my fault. It's a long story." 

Mack's gaze darted from one man to the other. "Tully?" he asked uncertainly. "What's up?" 

Tully laughed and the tension broke. "Sarge!" He came forward, his face creased in an unaccustomed smile, and clapped Moffitt on the shoulder. "I don't believe it! You're still alive. An officer now?" 

"That's a long story," Moffitt said with a relieved smile. "I need your help. Tully. Let's talk."


	2. Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Truths starts to come out when old friends meet in Europe and Kentucky.

GERMANY-March 1943 

"I woke up in a hospital, Sarge:' Hitchcock went on. "I was there for a couple of weeks, then was shipped out to a POW camp here in Germany. Regular wandering boy; this is my third. Do you know what happened?" 

"Dietrich told me," Troy replied, settling against the door. "Came to see me in the camp. He made sure I knew that they sent Tully back in an exchange of wounded. He's probably back in the States now." 

"Wish I was," Hitchcock said wistfully. 

"He told the British where they buried Moffitt," Troy continued. his voice steady. "He's probably buried back in England now." 

“Next to his brother." 

“Yeah," Troy said harshly. He remembered that Moffitt's brother had been a casualty of the bombing raids. It had nearly sent the Englishman over the edge. The icy reserve had cracked that day. Troy had nearly lost his brother to the Germans and could easily sympathize. 

"So, you saw Dietrich again?" Hitchcock asked after a few minutes. 

"Yeah. He came to say goodbye." 

They heard footsteps outside. The guard came through and took away the trays, eyeing Troy as if he were a serpent. Apparently, his reputation had preceded him. The man stalked out, the door slamming behind him. "We got five minutes, Sarge," Hitchcock said in a rushed whisper. "Then they'll yell at us if we're talking. Dietrich…"

"He visited me in the POW camp," Troy said wryly. "A nice gesture." 

"Sounds like he wanted to make sure you hadn't escaped," Hitchcock laughed. 

Troy chuckled as he remembered that last meeting. 

NORTH AFRICA-November 1942 

Troy sorely regretted losing his hat as the hot sun beat down on his unprotected head. He leaned against the wooden wall of the temporary barracks and wished he had a cigarette. He was bored out of his mind. Even getting sunstroke from sitting in the merciless glare might relieve the tedium, At least it would get him out of the company of his fellows. The transit camp was on the outskirts of the port, and he could smell the ocean. Seagulls floated above them looking for scraps, 

It had been four long tedious weeks of waiting and many of the prisoners he'd arrived with were gone, Troy had purposely kept a very low profile. storing away information about the camp, but never saw a chance to escape through the wire. Overhead he'd seen the bombers heading for the German lines, but no one dropped a bomb unexpectedly and freed him. 

He hadn't endeared himself to the other men in the camp, either. His reputation preceded him, and security was tighter around the camp after he entered it. The few American captives and the British soldiers were kept apart for the most part, and Troy didn't want to deal with the British officers. Unlike Moffitt. they were rather stiff and rank-happy. 

An officer, accompanied by two guards, walked over to him. "Sergeant Troy?" 

Troy reluctantly rose and saluted. 

"Come with us," the man ordered and turned on his heel. The guards fell in beside Troy, They passed through the gate that separated the prisoners from the captors and headed for the long wooden building where the Commandant had his quarters. It also housed the interrogation rooms. From the corner of his eye, Troy saw some prisoners watching, then raised their hands in support. 

Troy braced himself for anything. The other time he had been taken to interrogation, he'd fallen into the hands of the sadistic Colonel Beckmann, 

Parked outside the barracks was a German staff car with a driver who was idly polishing a fender. Troy momentarily dreamed of snatching a gun and taking off in the car but knew that it wouldn't happen. He wasn't that reckless. 

Going inside, he was taken down the hall to the room where he had been interrogated when he first arrived. This time, he recognized the man who was talking to the Commandant. What the hell was Dietrich doing here? 

The man left, followed by two others. One of the guards who had escorted Troy took up position by the door, his hand on his pistol. 

"Captain Dietrich?" Troy asked breaking the silence. "Can I help you?”

"I couldn't let you leave North Africa without saying goodbye," Dietrich said smoothly. "Cigarette, Sergeant?" 

Troy took the cigarette and lit it from the outstretched lighter. "Thank you. I'm leaving?" 

Dietrich smiled, "I believe later this afternoon, so whatever you had planned for an escape will have to be very soon." 

Troy struggled not to smile. "Escape, Captain?"' 

"Oh, please, Sergeant. don't act innocent," Dietrich protested with a humorous tone. "I would think the worst of you if you didn't have one planned. You've been here four weeks!" 

"If I'd known you were watching, I would have put more effort into it," Troy replied. "Whatever I had planned is now too late." 

Dietrich nodded regretfully, "For us both, Sergeant." 

"Both?" Troy raised an eyebrow. He studied Dietrich. The man looked as taut as a drawn bow, and tired to the bone. He probably had been in the heart of the EI Alamein fighting. Of course he had been; Troy would have been if he was free. The British Eighth Army had broken through the German lines and driven them back in full retreat. 

The last time he had seen Dietrich was when they'd buried Alexander by the burned·out trucks. Troy had used the opportunity to bury the betraying dog tags in the sand far away from the body. He had drawn the burial out as long as he could, hoping his partner would come back, but no jeep appeared on the horizon with Moffitt behind the wheel. Finally, as the night deepened into black, he had been taken back to the camp with the guards. Both Tully and Hitchcock had gone long before. 

"Yes, I've been transferred," Dietrich said unexpectedly. "We will both be leaving North Africa."

"Really? Where?" Troy asked casually, letting out a cloud of smoke. Dietrich was one of Rommel's best officers. This could have intelligence value.

Dietrich laughed. "Somewhere where it is cooler, Sergeant. Have they treated you well here?" 

Troy was startled by the change in topic. He almost felt embarrassed to be asked. "Fine, yeah, Food's a little boring, and the company isn't bad. but ... why?" 

"I made sure your army knew that you had been captured along with the others," Dietrich replied. "'Have you heard from your people?"

Troy shook his head. "Not a word, even through the Red Cross. The attack must have disrupted lines. What about my men, Captain?" 

"That was the main reason I came here, Private Pettigrew is still hospitalized but Private Hitchcock is now in a POW camp in Italy." 

"He was wounded -" 

"Not badly. He was moved there last week," Dietrich chuckled. "Apparently the nurses were disappointed that he left so soon." 

Troy laughed loudly. "I have no doubt!"

"Yes, he was picking up German quickly and the other wounded men were being neglected," Dietrich retorted. "So, he was moved. He should have played it more low key if he wanted to escape." 

"You're assuming that we all want to escape," Troy said with assumed innocence, He struggled to hold his expression as he looked into Dietrich's skeptical gaze, then both men started to laugh. 

"I try not to underestimate the Rat Patrol," Dietrich said finally catching his breath. "The four of you were a bane!"' 

Troy sobered. There was one man missing. "Four of us. What happened to Sergeant Moffitt, Captain?” 

"We passed along the coordinates where they could find the body," Dietrich replied seriously. "I passed through there a week later. It was gone. I assume he is buried by now," 

"Yeah. Next to his brother," Troy commented, controlling his feelings. 

"He was a good soldier. I am sure he was buried with full honors. So, Sergeant, this is goodbye." Unexpectedly he held out his hand. 

Troy clasped the offered hand though he noticed the guard had stiffened behind him. They shook. "Sure you don't want to tell me where you're going. Captain? I might be able to arrange a welcoming committee.”

Dietrich laughed grimly. "I would prefer an American committee to where I may be going. Good luck, Sergeant Troy. I’ll follow your career with interest." 

"I'll make sure to keep you informed. Good luck to you, Captain. I think you'll need it more than I will." They saluted, and Troy was taken back to his fellow prisoners with a great deal to think about. 

"That was after El Alamein, right? I wonder where he was headed?" Hitchcock muttered. "Russia?" 

"Remember, at that point the Krauts were doing pretty well. That was before winter set in." 

"Not much before." 

The guard opened the door and shouted, "Quiet!" then slammed the door again. The lights went out. Through the barred windows, Troy could see an occasional spotlight which illuminated the barbed wire and the tall watchtowers. 

He looked at his handcuffed hands, shrugged and lay down on the thin mattress. How had that silly movie said it? ‘Tomorrow was another day'. Another day of boredom, captivity and the Gestapo. Al least he'd found Hitch.

Troy shut his eyes and fell asleep. 

AMERICA-March 1943 

"Ditch the coat, Sarge," Tully said, eyeing the formal jacket Moffitt was wearing over his uniform. "You're gonna melt." 

Moffitt sheepishly unbuttoned it and slid it off his narrow shoulders. He undid his tie and the top button of his shirt, and tucked the tie in the jacket pocket. He hung it on the banister's post. "Kentucky's very different from North Africa." 

“Yeah. Humid even in spring." 

“Tully, we must talk. Now." Tully nodded, and turned to the woman who came up, and smiled. "This is my sister-in-law, Laura Pettigrew." 

Moffitt held out his hand. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Pettigrew." He never knew that Tully had a brother. The laconic private hadn't said much about his family. The woman shook his hand, and then took the jacket. 

"Just call me Laura, Sergeant. I’ll just take that inside and hang it." 

"I'm afraid that right now I'm Lieutenant Colonel Alexander," Moffitt said calmly, glancing at Tully. 

Tully's right eyebrow went up. "Colonel Alexander?”

"Yes, the rank would make my mother happy," the Englishman acknowledged, meeting Tully's amused look with a rueful smile. 

Tully chuckled. "Where's your bag, Sarg-Colonel?" 

"I left it at the station. I thought I might find a place to stay in town." 

“Mack!" Tully ordered, not taking his gaze away from Moffitt. "Get to the station and find the Colonel's bag. Tell Parkins he's staying with us." 

The boy looked rebellious, but nodded. Slinging his book bag onto the rickety porch. he pelted off down the road obviously planning to be back as soon as possible. 

Moffitt smiled. Mack reminded him of his now-dead brother, with the same enthusiastic approach to life, and the corresponding sulkiness when he didn't get his way. 

"I'm serving dinner in a couple of hours," Laura commented laconically, her hand smoothing the jacket. "Be back by then, Tully." 

"Thank you, Mrs. Pettigrew," Moffitt said politely. 

"Come on," Tully ordered, "'Colonel'. Let's talk." 

"Tully!" Laura commented as she stepped back. "Why don't you take your tackle?" 

Tully nodded and picked up a fishing rod. "Bring back something, Sis?" 

She smiled. Moffitt was stuck at her youthfulness. "For tomorrow, yes. I've got a stew on for tonight, and the bread will be baked in a bit. You boys go ahead and take your time." 

"Thank you, ma'am," Moffitt said. ''Tully?'' 

They climbed into the hills following a path 'worn by other hikers to where a stream broadened into a small pool wide enough for water birds to prowl the banks looking for fish. and water bugs to skitter over the slightly turbulent water. It meandered through the clearing before disappearing amid the barely-leafed trees. 

Tully headed for a large rocky outcropping that jutted into the sparkling water. An oak tree provided shade from the hot sun, where the granite boulders were growing a fine layer of moss. 

Moffitt thought ruefully of his khaki trousers and shirt, but sat down on the rock, leaning back against the tree trunk. He relaxed and shut his eyes for a minute, listening to the gurgling water. How peaceful. 

"So, what happened?" Tully finally asked. He cast his line out into the pond and sat down a few feet away, the fishing rod held loosely in his callused hands. "Why are you now 'Lieutenant Colonel Alexander'?" 

Moffitt watched the sun dance over the stream. A squirrel chattered above him. and a fragment of nut drifted down onto his shoulder. Across the pond. a blue heron gently stepped in and out of the mud on the bank, probing for dinner in the water. Dragonflies darted from one side to the other, then out of sight in the undergrowth. Bees buzzed around the early flowers. 

Reluctantly, Moffitt turned his attention to Tully. "I wish I had all the details. After we were hit on that convoy, I was thrown out and bashed my head and back. That should have been it for me." 

Tully nodded. "I saw you go down. Barely missed running you over. Then I got hit myself. The jeep went over and I went out." 

"I awoke in a sandstorm. It was following us, remember?" 

"Yeah." 

"I couldn't find the jeep. Couldn't find you or Troy, anything. I staggered off trying to find the trucks. Someone grabbed me, threw me in the back of a jeep, and took off."

Tully raised an eyebrow. 

Moffitt grimaced. "Lieutenant Partridge. He thought I was Colonel Alexander. He made a mistake during the battle." 

"Ah." Understanding broke over Tully's face. 

"Apparently. Alexander's jeep had been hit earlier. Partridge found the only working jeep, which was Hitch's, and got Felix and me in it, and look off. Ran over someone on the way out from the mess on the tires." Moffitt winced. "I came to in the mountains where Partridge was trying to find the path back to HQ.”

"He knew by then that you weren't Alexander?" 

"Not until I sat up and demanded an explanation. Turned out that he had run over Alexander escaping. There was blood on the wheels." 

Tully flinched. "Bad driving." 

"Very. He got lost in the mountains as well. The Lieutenant was not happy about the entire raid." 

"You got them back home. Sarge?" Tully unconsciously used the old form. 

"Back to divisional HQ. yes. Took a day or two because the jeep was limping. The Germans, with their usual efficiency, had already reported me dead." Moffitt grinned as Tully laughed. "I died in the raid. Run over, you see.”

"Helluva a way to go, Sarge." 

Moffitt chuckled grimly. "My family was very upset. So was HQ when I showed up instead of Alexander. I have been 'Colonel Alexander' ever since." 

"Really? Why?" Tully asked. feeling a tug on the rod. His line stirred on the placid water and he reeled it in. The bait had been stolen by a hungry fish. He reached into the battered tin stuck in one of the cracks and pulled out a new worm, put it on the hook and cast the line out again. 

Moffitt avoided the explanation. "You and Hitch were in hospital, Troy was in a POW camp. Dietrich was-" 

"Dietrich!" 

"He was the one who reported my death. He must have been in the area at the time, and came to Felix's 'rescue'." 

"He was always a honest Kraut," Tully commented, pursing his lips and shaking his head. "Pity he's on the other side." 

"An honorable man. Hard to find these days on either side," Moffitt agreed. Dietrich had once saved his life when he was about to be shot by a Gestapo officer. It was of the many reasons the patrol hadn't taken advantage of any of the times when they could have shot him in the back, despite Colonel Ramsey's suggestion. "They buried Alexander where he fell with a marker with my name on it. We retrieved him a couple of days later during a lull in the fighting, then the Germans came back. Took several weeks to clean them out and by that time you three had been moved."

"And you, Sarge? What happened back at HQ?" 

Moffitt gave an unconscious sigh. "I was sent back home just as the attack on EI Alamein started. I was injured in the fall and they sent me to hospital for several weeks-" 

"Home? To your family?"

"No, Mother and Father thought I was dead, remember? It was basically while they decided what to do about Colonel Alexander. I went to his memorial, you know?" he concluded irrelevantly. 

"Alexander's?" 

"Actually, mine. They had a service for those killed at El Alamein and I was included. Gave me a nice little plaque in the local church and a bouquet of roses from Mother's garden," Moffitt said with a twisted smile. “'My parents were there. They didn't see me. I made sure of that." 

Tully glanced at him in disbelief. He tried to imagine what it might have been like to see his own tombstone and hear himself mentioned among the dead, and couldn't stretch that far. Despite Moffitt's calm, it had affected him as well, from the tense way he was coiled against the tree.

"Was it worth it, Sarge? Taking on the colonel's identity?" 

"Believe it or not, Command has a good reason for all this, Tully." 

"Hard to believe." 

Moffitt nodded understandingly, and a fragment of nut fell out of his hair. "I agree, but it's true, Alexander wasn't just another officer. He was an intelligence man of rare importance. They needed to keep him 'alive' for a while." 

"Ah." 

"They had already been keeping him alive for months before the Felix raid, which by the way, wasn't an Alexander raid." 

"Want to run that one by me again?" 

Moffitt grinned. "The man we knew as Alexander was his latest 'replacement'. He had been working Felix for months. So when they assigned him to suddenly become Alexander he was furious. This happened just about the same time Felix wanted out; so 'Alexander' insisted on the raid. Remember, Felix never called him ' Alexander'." 

"Yep, that's right. So, why's' Alexander' so important?" 

"I'm not that sure," Moffitt said reflectively. "He's certainly a good officer but there's more to it. I was just given my orders when I left hospital-" 

"Did they include going to the memorial?" 

Moffitt laughed. "No, that was the final straw for Command. They sent me to America with orders to keep out of sight." 

Tully frowned. "Sound like you're sort of worn out at being Colonel Alexander." 

"I'm tired of being someone I'm not," Moffitt admitted, "and not being told why. They've promised me that I can go back to being who I was-am. My parents were very tom up about it, Tully. I was the only son they had left."

"That's right. Your kid brother died in that air raid," Tully said reflectively, casting his line into the water. 

"Yes." 

The ever-changing river flowed by them, placid and deep, a sheet of quicksilver with the sun's reflection. Moffitt leaned back against the tree, and closed his eyes. It was so peaceful here. It could almost blot out those dreadful days in England when he had seen his parents mourning him. 

"What you got planned, Sarge?" Tully asked unexpectedly. 

Moffitt waved at the gnats buzzing around his head. "I need some help." 

Tully mused on this for a second. His line jerked and twitched. He began to wind it in. The bait had been again taken by the local trout. "Why me?" 

"Why you? Why not, Tully?" 

"You didn't come all the way to Kentucky for me, Sarge," Tully said dryly, 

"Don' t be so sure of that. How's your health?" Moffitt asked unexpectedly. 

Tully laughed. "Better than I was before. Sarge. I nearly bled to death, but the Germans sewed me up good. I'm on extended leave right now but I could go back any time." 

"Good," Moffitt replied. His eyes closed. "It's so warm here ... " 

"How's yours?" Tully questioned, glancing at him. "Health. You look like you're hurting, Sarge." 

Moffitt grimaced. "You're not supposed to notice that. Tully, I broke some bones landing the way I did. They ache in cold weather. Other than that, I'm fine." 

Tully pursed his lips, then blew out. "Doesn't sound good, Sarge." 

"You're the only one I've told," Moffitt warned, "They'd put me, or Colonel Alexander in cotton wool, if they knew. I'd go mad." 

Tully snorted. "Figures that we already are. Sarge. I can't believe that we're all still alive." 

"As Troy once said, if you calculate the odds, we should all be dead. 

Tully chuckled. "Right, Sarge. You got time for a nap before chow." 

Moffitt smiled. "So, will you join the team?" he asked anxiously, opening his eyes and glancing at Tully. 

Tully shrugged, his lips smiling slightly. "Do I have a choice?" 

"Not much," Moffitt admitted. "I put up a fight to get you. The Americans were very suspicious." 

"You have my orders?" 

"In my bag. I couldn't leave it up to chance," He eyed Tully. "I can have them changed though, if you think you're not up to it. You were badly wounded, you know." 

Tully looked insulted. "When do we leave, Sarge?" 

"Colonel Alexander. When's the next train out?" 

"Day after tomorrow at ten." Tully recast his line. "See if I can get a fish for Sis." 

"Then I'll sleep for a while." Moffitt closed his eyes and let himself sink into a relieved sleep. He had prayed that he'd be able to get Tully to back him up. At least there'd be one man who wouldn't shoot 'Colonel Alexander' in the back.

 

NORWAY-March 1943 

Hauptmann Hans Dietrich, one of Rommel's favorite tank commanders, and a hero of the Africa Korps, stared at the cold herring lying on the exquisite china plate, and thought, with a sinking feeling. that he would have preferred to be anywhere but in Norway. He was tired of salted fish, fresh fish, all fish, all the time. He was particularly tired of seeing fish for breakfast. 

He had access to prized supplies from Germany and France but felt that he should save them for special guests. Not that Norway got many "special guests" except for the Gestapo. and they'd clean him out of supplies if he told them what he had warehoused. 

Picking up his fork, he delicately maneuvered the knife under the skin, pinned it with the tines and lifted. With a sudden flash of revulsion, he let it go and dropped the utensils. Pushing the plate aside, he walked over to the window. 

His office was on the second floor of a concrete office building. The view from the large windows was of the oilier building across the narrow road, a telephone pole with a sagging wire. and the guards that patrolled the rooftops and street down below. Before he arrived, various German officers had been picked off by the commandos, or natives, whoever got there first, and his predecessor had simply declared the two buildings belongings of the Reich and evicted anyone who wasn't German or an avowed sympathizer. He had strung barbed wire around the offices, installed a front gate where everyone's identification papers where checked and provided a thoroughly boring view from Dietrich's windows. At least he had the large windows to provide the sunshine that he had come to crave desperately over the last few months. Here in Susevend, near Trondheim, the spring \ovas arriving slowly and the days were still dark far longer than they were light. The Germans had first call on the electricity and fuel but Dietrich still walked the streets and wondered if the natives were as cold as he was. 

Not as cold as the Eastern Front ... drifted through his mind and he flinched. All those cold bodies in the Russian snow. 

"Herr Hauptmann doesn't like his fish?" a woman asked tentatively behind him. 

Dietrich jumped, then turned. "I can feel myself growing fins," he joked half-heartedly. "Take it away, Sigrid. Find some worthy person for it." The dark-haired girl smiled weakly, picked up the tray. and scurried back out the open wooden door. 

She had an unnerving tendency to come into the office after the softest of knocks. which he wouldn't hear, and interrupt him, but he didn't have the heart to fire her. She had been hired by the officer who preceded him. Hauptmann Didior had gone insane one cold Norwegian night, and blown his head off after he claimed that the cook had poisoned his food. Dietrich wasn't sure what he had been served but it was probably fish. 

Dietrich had been transferred in to take over the duties temporarily, but found himself trapped. He had inherited the job, the maid and the cook. He had proved to himself that she hadn't poisoned Didior; the officer had been insane for months and one of his own fellows had finally killed him and blamed it on the cook. That officer was now at the Russian Front, Didior had been buried in Bavaria, and Dietrich was staring at the slowly growing light which signaled dawn, waiting for one more day to pass in this miserably cold country where he had no friends even among his fellow officers, and little hope of leaving anytime soon. 

However, it was better than two months ago .... That niggling little thought slid through and he acknowledged it grimly, Christmas on the Russian Front had been unbelievably bad and January colder than any hell in the Norse sagas. This was where they had been written, after all.

Sigrid's tendency to flinch whenever the head of the local Gestapo, Major Stahl, came to see him was unfortunate, but she had perfected vanishing as soon as she could. 

Dietrich lit a cigarette, and blew the smoke against the glass. The smoke obscured his reflection. His blond hair had darkened now that it was out of the North African sun, and his face was thinner with more lines around his eyes. The skin had paled. Still, his long thin nose and high cheekbones gave him an aristocratic air that he used to his advantage. He was still athletically trim, even if he had managed to put on a few pounds. 

The rain was finally letting up. A few persistent drops hit the window and stained the dirty concrete sill. He was fairly sure that Sigrid was part of the Resistance, along with the other woman in the kitchen, but he had a reluctance to hand them over to Stahl for interrogation. In fact. unless he found her rifling through his papers, he wasn't going to try to prove his suspicions. Major Stahl had shown far too much interest in his kitchen maid as it was. 

"She is a lovely girl," he mused, staring outside. 

"Who is, sir?" someone asked apologetically. 

Dietrich started. He had been so lost in his thoughts that he'd missed Lieutenant Lipken's entrance. That would never have happened a year ago, he thought. But a year ago he had been a different man. "You have the daily reports?" 

"Yes, Herr Hauptmann!" Lipken said, saluting. He laid a pile of papers on the desk. "Major Stahl requests an appointment at eleven o'clock." 

Major Stahl's paranoia had him seeing Norwegian freedom fighters and commandos in every village and town, and a longing to arrest every one of them and ship them south to labor camps. The weak Norwegian leader, Vidkun Quisling. had not convinced his people that the German way was the right way, Not a few picked up the Allied newscasts from Britain across the North Sea about German defeats, and that bred discontent among the captive population. Dietrich had spent a lot of time trying to find the middle ground between the reluctantly compliant civilians and the hard line Gestapo. He also wondered why he bothered when he'd nearly been killed by a sniper not three weeks before while corning out of the town hall. Only his strictest orders had kept Lipken from rounding everyone up for interrogation. That young man had spent too much time with Major Stahl. 

One eyebrow went up. "'Requests'? How tactful of you, Lipken. Tell him I'll see him at eleven," Dietrich replied dryly. "Do warn Sigrid and the others that he's coming." 

Lipken nodded stiffly, his lips a thin line of disapproval at Dietrich's tone. "I will have her bake a cake." 

"Make sure you give her the ingredients then," Dietrich ordered. "And bring it in yourself." Today, he could do without Stahl upsetting the kitchen staff. He picked up the top sheet and stiffened. "What is this? Commandos were taken near Holm?" 

'Yes, sir. Major Stahl has been interrogating them all night." 

Dietrich's head shot up. "How did he hear of them before I did?"' 

Lipken looked uncomfortable. "I don't know, Herr Hauptmann. Someone must have called him-" 

Dietrich slammed his hands on his desk and leaned forward. "Well, find out, Lieutenant. As for the commandos, make sure they stay where they are until I get to them!" 

Lipken looked uncertain, his loyalties divided by his self-preservation instincts, and his ambition. "Major Stahl-" 

Dietrich turned and pulled his coat off the rack behind him, He knew, that unless he moved fast, he wouldn't be talking to live captives but burying corpses. Stahl was thorough and fast. "Tell him I am going over there. Get moving, Lipken!" 

"Yes, sir!" 

AMERICA-March 1943 

Moffitt stirred, and slapped at a biting gnat. His eyelids quivered, then opened. The sun had set behind the tree opposite them, and Tully was wrapping his fishing gear, 

"How long was I asleep?"' 

Tully stopped chewing on a twig. "'Bout two hours." 

"Your sister will be upset." 

"Nope. She wanted us out of the house for a while. Got to finish the washing." 

Moffitt gave a wry smile. "I saw it hanging in the sunshine." 

"She's probably finished yours by now."

"Mine! Oh, no, I think my socks-" 

"You're company," Tully said with a grin. "She's probably baking right now." 

"She mentioned bread," 

Tully laughed. "She got some sugar this morning with her ration coupons. We'll have cake." They climbed down the hill. 

Moffit looked at peace. Tully actually hadn't seen his partner this relaxed for, no, he had never seen Moffitt this relaxed, No matter how much time Moffitt had spent with the more-casual Americans, he had always retained a British reserve and dignity that set him apart. Only Troy had managed to penetrate that reserve with zingers that made the Englishman smile sheepishly, and retaliate, If Troy was the leader, Moffitt was the loyal opposition. Tully mused on the fact that everyone had worked together so well for so many months. Too many of the other patrols had been destroyed. their British crews killed or caught by the Germans. It had been instinct, luck and guts that kept the Rat Patrol alive. "'What about Partridge?" 

"Hm?" Moffitt said startled out of his silence. 

"Partridge. What happened to him?" 

"Ah. yes. Him. He was the one who carried us out of the fight. He was downright angry when he was lost in the mountains." 

“So, why isn't he Colonel Alexander? He knew Alexander the best, didn't he?" 

Moffitt shook his head, his face closing up. "The War Office decided he wasn't suitable," 

Probably some kind of class thing, Tully decided, The Brits were full of that sort of nonsense, "I thought he went to a good schooL He had the lingo down. He sounded like a-" 

"Partridge may have had a good education but he didn't have what they wanted in Colonel Alexander." 

"I know all about his education, I remember," Tully said flatly, and Moffitt winced, They had discussed education that night in the desert. 

Tully had been staring out over the silent sand when Moffitt came up behind him. settling down on a neighboring rock. 

"He upset you?" the Englishman finally asked. 

Tully spat out the twig he had been chewing on. "I never got to go to school, the upper grades. Never found it mattered much either." 

"It doesn't out here." Moffitt waved to the desert. "Education won't stop a bullet. Won't stop you from finding a way out of a trap. Won't stop you from dying of dehydration." 

"But it matters back there," Tully stated, glancing at him for a second. 

Moffitt nodded. "It matters outside of combat, yes." 

"I read your father's book. Understood it all." 

"Tully, self·education is as good as university," Moffitt said. "I've run into more educated men who have never graduated from their public school mentality. They're self -indulgent children who don't realize that this war is destroying the world they grew up in. Out here what matters is practically and self-reliance. You can go back to university, you can get more education, but most Oxford men would find it difficult to survive in the hills of Kentucky. I doubt that they could run moonshine and get away with it!" 

"You sound like you don't like them, Sarge," Tully said shrewdly, glancing at him for a second. Then he went back to scanning the dark quiet ravine. 

Moffitt sat silently for several minutes. "My mother ran the faculty parties for the undergraduates. For years, I saw the students go through university. Some became men whom I could admire. Most didn’t. When I was out with my father in the desert, I met practical men who couldn't read; but they could survive and keep others alive. If I had stayed in Cambridge, I could have gone either way, I had to get away from England, Tully, before I became like so many others." 

"Don't think you would've gone soft, Sarge." 

"I could have. My brother stayed with Mother. He was traveling down that path before I left. He joined the Home Guard but after 1941 it wasn't very taxing. He never talked of joining the Army-" 

"Your father-" "

My father wasn' t there much of the time. He was on digs or teaching classes. My parents aren't close.” 

Tully looked at him in silent sympathy, This was the first time that Moffitt had ever really opened up to anyone about his family. He was an open book in contrast with Troy or Tully himself, with a face that showed more emotion than the others did in a year, but Moffitt seldom verbalized his feelings. It made Tully uncomfortable to listen to it. 

"But Mother did what ...vas necessary to keep Father in good standing at Cambridge," Moffitt finally continued. "That was as important as the published work that Father did. Don't let anyone tell you that who you know isn't important Tully." 

"Don't bother to go into it, Sarge," Tully commented. "I get your point."  
"Good. Then tomorrow.... " 

"We do our job, then we get rid of the extra weight." 

Moffitt chuckled. 

"Then I'll get another of your father's books to read," 

"I'll make sure he sends a copy of his new one to you." 

"You do that." 

AMERICA-March 1943 

"We're almost home. Sarge." They rounded the corner of the driveway that led to the old farmhouse. Moffitt looked at his shirt which was drying on the line, along with several socks. "I see my luggage has arrived." 

"Dinner"s probably ready. too," 

"Tell me more about your family before we go in," Moffitt asked crisply. "Since when did you have a brother?" 

"HaIr-brother. He's gone. Hopefully for good." 

"Tully!" 

"Wife-beater, Sarge. My dad threw him out twelve years ago, and we didn't hear from him again 'til they told us he's missing in the Pacific. With any luck, the Japs have done the job I should have," Tully said briefly. "As for the others .... " he grinned. "Don't worry, Sarge. They don't bite.” 

"Tully!" 

The American laughed as they climbed the stairs, "Wait and see, Sarge." 

A single light bulb dangled over the kitchen sink, lighting up the room with its battered wallpaper of striped yellow and green, and white-painted cabinets. Laura was icing the single layer cake. She batted at Tully who made a swipe at the sugary frosting, and missed. "Wash your hands. Mister!" 

Licking the icing off his fingers, Tully saw Moffitt's face become the polite mask that he always wore in company. If nothing else the Englishman had exquisite manners. He could look as cold as one of those pictures of Roman statues that hung in Mack's room. 

They were interrupted by the boy, whose tumultuous entrance into the kitchen was preceded by a large, hairy dog of undistinguished ancestry who barked at Moffitt. He held out his hand and the dog sniffed it, then submitted to a petting.

"Get that mutt out of here," Laura ordered automatically, rinsing her knife under the water. “Mack.”

"Yes, Ma'am." the boy said. and put the dog outside where he howled for a second, then galloped down the road after a squirrel. 

"What's his name?" Moffitt asked. 

"Roland," Mack said proudly. 

"Roland?" 

"You know. The knight, Roland," the boy insisted. 

Tully nodded. "He reads a lot. Almost as much as you did." His tone was proud. 

"Yes, I noticed that from the books he was carrying," Moffitt said, glancing at Mack, who put his chin up as if he was defending himself. Then, the boy realized that the tall man wasn't going to make fun of him. and relief showed in the dark eyes. Moffitt knew he had made a friend. 

"He's the student here," Laura said proudly, drying her hands. "Going to college-" 

"In a year, I'm going in the Army," Mack burst in. 

"Not as long as I'm there," Tully said dryly. "Someone has to stay here and help Sis." 

The boy looked rebellious. 

"It's possible that in a year it might be over," Moffitt offered. His comment fell flat when all three sent him looks of disbelief. 

"You finish the school and we’ll see what happens," Laura said harshly. "Tully, please set the table." 

"May I help?" Moffitt asked, feeling awkward.

"No, thank you, Mack. show the Colonel his room," she ordered, smiling at him. "Top of the stairs."

Moffitt followed Mack upstairs to a small bedroom that had a single bed, a worn dresser with a patched cotton runner, and transparent windows. It overlooked the back of the house and the orchard where red apples hung low on the trees. A hook sat beside an apple basket, and a small ladder was propped nearby. There was a basin with a pitcher and a towel on the dresser. Moffitt realized the small building he'd seen behind the clothesline was an outhouse. He made a mental note to use the facilities soon. 

Moffitt called. "Mack!" 

"Yeah?" The boy turned on the threshold. 

"Where's your father?" 

"Dad? He's MIA in the Pacific," Mack replied impassively. 

Moffitt winced. Mack was old enough to know what his father was really like. He wondered what the boy thought. "Ah, yes. You're the man about house, then?" 

"Tully is when he's here." 

Moffitt nodded. "No, wonder your mother doesn't want to lose you. 

"When Tully leaves," Mack said, leaning against the door, "when I graduate, I'll be drafted anyway, so she's gotta let go sometime." 

"But not yet," Moffitt said sitting on the bed. "I shocked Mother." 

"Really?" 

"Yes, she thought I was too soft for the ranks." Moffitt remembered that little confrontation vividly. It had haunted his dreams for months, "So did my father. I joined up just before Dunkirk and was chased out of France when the Germans invaded." 

"You were at Dunkirk?" Mack was very impressed. 

Moffitt nodded. "I was wounded and had to be helped by the Resistance to escape the Germans." 

"Where were you wounded?" Mack asked curiously. 

"In the leg," Moffitt admitted. "It took months to heaL They loaded us on fishing boals and we were strafed by the Germans as we crossed. My mother was very upset." 

"But you went back into the war," Mack questioned, staring at him intently. 

"Oh, yes, transferred to North Africa. I had studied archeology there before the war." Moffitt suddenly realized this wasn't Colonel Alexander's past. The hell with it. He was tired of being Alexander. He shouldn't be telling the boy about his own past, either. Who could Mack tell? 

"Your mother couldn't stop you?" 

"The British Army is even more formidable than my mother," Moffitt said with a slight smile. But not by much. "I caused her a lot of sorrow by doing it my way. There's a better way than fighting with your parents, As you say, in a year, you'll be drafted." 

"Tully tells me that I won't like the army," Mack opined doubtfully. "He doesn't talk much about the war." 

"He never talked much," Moffitt agreed. 

Mack shifted restlessly. "You want to see my stuff?" 

"Certainly! Lead on." 

Mack's room was in the attic under the eaves, where Moffitt had to crouch. The sloping walls were plastered withh postcards, and drawings of ancient ruins and statues. Several of them had come from North African newspapers. Moffitt remembered Tully shipping back a souvenir or two wrapped in paper and wondered if it had been the pictures more than the carvings that were important. 

A battered copy of Professor Moffitt's book on ancient Egypt sat in a pile on the desk created by a plank and two tall stools along with other contemporary texts on Greece and Rome, and one on English history. A collection of legends and myths. Bullfinch, Graves, a translation of the Norse Sagas and a copy of the German Ring legends sat next to the half-opened window. 

A huge map of North Africa, another of England, and a third of Europe jostled for room on the walls. Papers were strewn over the bed and desk and half the floor while clothes hung haphazardly in the closet built into the wall. Moffitt automatically picked up a shirt and hung it on the back of the chair. 

He realized the boy was waiting for a reaction. Unable to say anything for a second, he picked up his father's book and noticed that inside it was inscribed, 'Hey, Mack. I met this guy; he's a good writer. Read it! Tully.' The lump in his throat grew bigger and he sat down on the unmade bed. The book was well-thumbed. 

"Well?" Mack finally burst out. "What do you think?" 

'"Hm.” Moffitt looked up at the magazine pictures that were pinned on the walls next to the makeshift desk. Not pinups as would be expected, but drawings from the popular novels about Charlemagne. Moffitt himself had had the Roland and Oliver drawing when he was younger. It replaced a mildly-racy Arabian Nights picture after his mother complained. She had disapproved of the half-clad belly dancers. "You'd be wasted in the Army, Mack." 

'"You're in the Army!"' Mack said defensively. "A colonel." 

For a second, Moffitt had forgotten that. "Right. Yes, that's true. You have a lovely collection here, Mack," He recognized some of the pieces. To one side was a small statue of a girl with a basin which Moffitt had helped Tully pick out in an antique store. He had thought it was for Tully's girlfriend. Now he understood better. 

"Yeah, well, I hope that I can get more. The librarian said she'd try and get me a copy of that guy's new book." Mack pointed to the book in Moffitt's hands. 

Moffitt nodded. "She should be able to."' 

"Dunno. Not many books being published right now." 

"I will make sure you get a copy," Moffitt said flatly. laying the book aside. The boy was too much like his younger brother to take much longer. "This rank is good for some things." 

Mack looked puzzled. "What'dya mean?" 

"That's not important. Do you hear your mother calling us? I believe dinner is ready." 

"I guess so," Mack replied with a shrug. Moffitt could see that he had hurt the boy but there was little he could do about it now. He had to get out of the room. It was too small, enclosed and brought back too many memories of growing up in a narrow little room, his refuge, only being free when he was with his father. His brother had been so many years younger than he that he'd gotten the room downstairs near their parents when they added an addition. Moffitt had to get out of here; he was stifling. 

"Tully and I are leaving in a couple of days," he said, standing as straight as he could. "Let's talk about this later." 

"I've got homework." 

"What arc you studying?" 

Mack made a face. "France." 

"France?" 

"Yeah. Napoleon." 

Moffitt laughed. "Interesting time period." 

"It's boring." 

"Not really. Look at it this way; there are two sides. The French version and the English version. More than that, you have the German and the Russian. It could be very interesting." 

Mack's jaw dropped and suddenly he looked fascinated. “I never thought of that. Can you help me, with it?" 

"We can talk about it over supper. I hear your mother calling us." 

With a smile on his lips, Moffitt followed the cheerful boy down the narrow stairs. Napoleon was very far away from here and now. Thank God. 

GERMANY-March 1943 

The bright noonday sun cast sharp-edged shadows on the hard-trodden dirt between the long rows of wooden barracks of the prison camps. The men wandering around aimlessly were dark silhouettes with only the outline of a beret or a cap or a scarf to tell them apart. Occasionally a guard wandered through with a stick-like gun cutting straight above his head, but most of the time, they were just prisoners whiling away their endless time in purgatory. The work groups had left for the day with a tromp of heavy feet and some catcalls. Troy could tell from the tones that the yellers were almost jealous. Being on detail gave some purpose to the day. 

He sucked on his cigarette, and leaned back against the wood. It hadn't taken a week in his first POW camp to know how important tobacco was, especially as a bribe, but he needed the nicotine today. It had been almost three days since he'd arrived, and he'd just been released into the general population. 

Oberstleutnant Pregger had returned the next morning to talk with the Commandant. Troy had seen him through the barred window, and braced himself for another journey in the man's unpleasant company but Pregger had driven off, and two days later Troy was free to join the other men. 

The camp was a mixture of Americans and English with a few Poles and Free French mixed in. They were separated by rank, not by nationality, but the officers often came over to their side after bribing the guards. It made for a certain amount of interesting repartee and trading since many officers got packages from home with more regularity than the enlisted men. There was a black market in jam and chocolate as well as cigarettes. One English officer had gotten some maple sugar from a contact in America and everyone was wondering what it could be bargained for. 

The Brits. His mind drifted to Moffitt, who was God·knows-where. At least, he was still alive. Hell, they were all still alive, but Troy wondered if the Germans had seen through the charade with Alexander. Dietrich was not a stupid man. 

He regretted lying to Hitch. If he could get him aside, maybe he'd tell him the truth. It couldn't hurt at this point. 

The sirens on the watchtowers wailed and there was the sound of tromping feet. Lunch roll call. At lunchtime? Why? Usually there was morning and evening. He climbed to his feet and stubbed out the cigarette, placing the butt carefully in his pocket. 

"Sarge?" Hitch called hopefully. 

“Over here, Hitch." 

The young man came around the corner looking cheerful. "Dinnertime."

"Something to look forward to." 

"There's something going on," Hitch muttered. "They ordered back the work crews." 

Troy glanced at him. "UnusuaP" 

"Never happens. Hey, I want you to meet someone. Guy named Luke Pierson, He's sorta like Moffitt." Troy mentally winced. Yes, he would have to tell Hitch soon.

"British officer?" 

"Yeah. He's a captain." 

"Why's he like Moffitt?" 

"Educated guy. He spends a lot of time with those college courses that the officers hold." 

“Courses?" 

"Yeah. Keeps us from getting bored, you know. I've been doing the Shakespeare course." 

"I thought you studied that in school." 

Hitchcock chuckled. "I did but when it's a Cambridge prof telling you about it, it's different from high school." 

"Ever hear from your family?"' They walked leisurely towards the groups of men who were lining up for roll call. A collection of trucks rolled through the barbed wire fences and parked on side of the field. The prisoners were asking questions and muttering among themselves. 

"Yep. It's taken a while to get it, but I got a letter and a package this last mail call. A couple of books and some home stuff. How about you, Sarge? Heard from your brother?" 

'''Haven't heard a thing," Troy replied tersely. ''I've been moved around a lot." 

"They had to have reported you a POW," Hitch said encouragingly. 

Troy shrugged. "Dietrich would have." 

“Yeah." 

Their conversation was interrupted by the guards. After the shouting. the commandant came out, followed by the senior American and British officers, both of whom looked upset.

"You are being moved," the commandant shouted in a harsh tone. "You have a half-hour to gather your belongings and board the trucks. We will start immediately. Dismissed!”

"What the hell?" Troy muttered. "Where're we going?" 

Hitchcock snorted in disgust beside him. "We nearly had the tunnel out as well. The other tunnel. Dammit!" 

"Do the Germans move you often?" 

"I've been moved three times in the last five months. Our guys or the Brits come over with their bombers and get a little too close. The Krauts don't want us to get hit, or to escape if the camp gets hit, so they move us further into Germany. Then we start all over again," Hitchcock explained as they headed for the barracks. 

The wooden building was jam-packed with other men, cursing and swearing, piling hoarded goods and clothing into travel bags or folded blankets. One man carefully took down a cherished pin-up of Betty Grable. 

Troy looked at the worn blanket, newish clothing and the tin mess kit, and shrugged. He'd better take it with him. He bundled the equipment into a blanket, tied the corners and turned to Hitchcock. 

The young man was talking to a thin-faced man whose arching dark eyebrows matched the color of his thick grey-streaked hair. Sallow white skin was stretched over prominent cheekbones. Troy estimated that he was in his early forties. The dark eyes that eyed the sergeant were considering. Also suspicious. He lifted a long-boned hand and coughed harshly. Pneumonia? A cold? Troy couldn't tell. Somehow he didn't look like he belonged in this crowded barracks either. 

Hitchcock nodded, then waved to Troy. "Sarge? This is Captain Luke Pierson. Luke. This is the guy who I told you about. He was my sergeant back in Egypt." 

"Glad to meet you," Pierson said, holding out his hand. "Hitch has told me all sorts of stories." 

"Hi," Troy shook, then glared at Hitchcock, who shrugged off the implied reprimand. "What kind of stories?" 

"About your raids. Especially the last one. That was a bit of a mess-up, wasn't it?" 

Troy shrugged. '''Happens in war. I’m sure you know that." 

“Yes. I'm very interested in the last raid?" Pierson said thoughtfully. Troy stiffened. "But we don't need to discuss that now." 

“I don't talk about missions," Troy said flatly. "Sorry." His tone was polite but disbelieving. Something didn't strike him as right about Pierson. Somehow he struck Troy as 'slumming'. Also, the Germans were known to put spies in the barracks to get inside information. 

Pierson eyed Troy, assessing him. After a second, he nodded towards Hitchcock, who was watching them both in puzzlement. ''I've heard a lot about you, Sergeant Troy, Are you feeling a little cold, perhaps?” 

Troy nodded, meeting his gaze. He'd have to trust Hitch here. Whoever Pierson was, Hitch trusted him to the extent of telling him about the Patrol. Hitch was more of a trusting soul than Troy, but he wasn't stupid. "Very." 

Pierson slid off one of the two overcoats he was wearing, and held it out. "Hitch said you would need this. To keep you warm." 

Troy slid it on. The thin fabric was warm from the other man's body. His hand touched a slender book in one pocket and his gaze flashed to Pierson, who stared at him warningly before turning to Hitchcock. "We'd better get moving before the Germans come in to find us." 

"Right." Hitchcock slid his bag onto his shoulder, "Ready to go, Sarge?" 

Troy didn't know if it was a pass in his pocket or a dirty novel, but he didn't feel like checking at the moment. He just hunched in the coat. "I'm ready." 

"Got everything, Hitch?" Pierson asked in a normal tone. 

Hitchcock nodded, "Any idea of where we're headed, Luke?" 

"New camp further in Germany where they can keep an eye on us," Pierson commented. He led the way out to the long lines of men who were being checked off by the guards. 

"That's what I thought," Hitchcock said cheerfully. "As long as we're together-" 

Pierson looked at him, and chuckled. "Keep up your good spirit, Hitch. We might be sent to separate camps. At one point they were going to split the English and the Americans-" 

"Keep it down," another man snapped, He fingered his cigarette nervously, and his hands trembled. 

"Let up, Darren," replied Pierson peaceably, ''They're just out of the cooler." 

"Guess my family won't catch up with me," Troy muttered to Hitchcock as he joined the end of the line.

"Yeah, Sarge, Your mail won't be able to catch up either." 

NORWAY-March 1943 

Dietrich knew he was too late. 

Major Stahl had taken over the largest building in town, a ornate chateau with an inner courtyard accessible through a iron gate, well-guarded by Gestapo men. Dietrich mused that this was probably the safest place in the city; no resistance sniper could reach inside the barrack-wall styling of the three buildings. It had built by an ambitious merchant about hundred years before, aping the great Russian houses, and had all their flaws. A parade of tall windows let in the northern sunshine and the cold of the winters. The well-swept cobblestones in the courtyard were guarded by trusted soldiers. 

Right now the courtyard was dominated by a rebellious horse hitched to a cart that was backed up to the front door, and the dead. Lying on the stones, their hands still tied behind their backs, were the bodies of the commandos. German soldiers, wearing uncomfortable expressions, were standing around them. The signs of torture were obvious and ghastly. In a final insult, each man had been shot in the back of the head. 

The casual way the corpses were sprawled offended Dietrich. The Gestapo man had obviously told the local garbage collectors to pick up the corpses and dispose of them, but the horse didn't like the smell. The two Norwegians were having trouble controlling him. 

Dietrich covered his anger with a bland expression. His sentiments might be old-fashioned, in fact. he knew that Stahl thought they were, but the men dead in the courtyard should be treated with the respect due to soldiers. Dietrich had dealt with commandos in North Africa. Unconventional as they were, the British commandos, and in particular, members of the Rat Patrol. had been honorable men. Dietrich had often wished they were on his side. 

He swallowed his ire and went inside. 

It was cold. A dankness lurked in every dark corner. Broken panes of glass in the tall windows had been replaced with cardboard or thin wood, and the corridors were dimly lit with small lamps. The walls were covered with faded carnation wallpaper, the floral motif as dim as the sunlight outside. Carnations. The former owner, evicted when the Germans took over the building, had probably been a patriotic follower of Haakon IV, the exiled king of Norway whose favorite flower was a carnation. 

Dietrich wondered where the owner was now. Had he been deported to Greater Germany to work in the labor camps, or to farm the lands under the watchful eye of the Reich? If he had been a follower of Hitler, it was possible that he could have kept his house. Maybe he had escaped to England or America. Most likely, he was dead. 

And the wallpaper could have been chosen just for its floral pattern. 

_Why am I worrying about this?_ he wondered as he walked up the curved staircase with its marble stairs and ornate grillwork. _Because it's more pleasant than thinking of what I have to face. he answered honestly._

He walked into an office where a secretary, wearing a navy print dress with a lace collar, sat at a typewriter hitting hard on the keys. She was doing her best to make sure the typewriter worked properly with a faint. worn ribbon. A pile of handwritten notes sat beside her. 

Dietrich found himself slightly surprised. Had one of the commandos actually talked? A pile of that size should contain more than one man's confession. 

She looked up, and didn't smile. If anything her blue eyes were even colder, and her lips turned down at the edges. "Hauptmann Dietrich! I believe the Major has an appointment with you at eleven." 

"Ja. Frau Etta, but I am here now instead." 

Her thin smile was laced with triumph. "He is awaiting you. Herr Hauptmann." 

Dietrich realized he'd walked into Stahl's web. Had the Gestapo man leaked the information just to make Dietrich come here instead of the other way around? He was a master at political games and one-upmanship. 

Turning the ornate knob, Dietrich entered a room where the painted ceiling was decorated with plump cherubs and a reclining Venus. A polished ornately carved desk. with several leather chairs. was arranged on the rich red carpet in front of the windows. The ten-foot ceiling had a huge glass chandelier that reflected the sunlight coming through the tall windows, and sent rainbows of light over the entire room. The curtains were tied hack with ropes of tarnished gold piping. The room overlooked the courtyard where several soldiers were finally loading the dead bodies into the cart. The horse was still restless and the job was taking longer than it should have. The Gestapo man was standing at his desk, reading reports. He looked up and smiled at Dietrich. Dietrich suddenly realized that Stahl had probably seen him enter and had noticed his reaction to the corpses. 

The well-kept grey uniform provided a contrast with the brilliant red in Stahl's round cheeks and the glint in the azure blue eyes. The cropped dark brown hair was lightly traced with silver, and smoothed back behind his ears. The man looked like he belonged on a recruiting poster. 

“I am glad you are here, Herr Hauptmann," Stahl said without any preliminaries. "I must commend your men for catching the commandos.”

Dietrich was taken by surprise. "My men took them ...." 

"Yes, indeed. and very well. They also found the invaders' parachutes and supplies. A good catch indeed." 

"How did you find out about them before I did?” Dietrich said sharply. 

Stahl raised a smooth dark eyebrow. "One of your men spotted them coming in, and took charge. He informed me at once. I believe that you were to be informed at the same time. Are you saying you did not hear until now?" 

Dietrich fumed but didn't let it show on his face. That helpful soldier was going to the Russian Front for not reporting to his commanding officer first. "I was informed this morning." 

"Ah." Stahl pursed his lips, then shrugged, vjsibly unflustered by the other's tone. "Have a cigarette?" He held out a red·enameled box with a crest on it. The legend was in French. It was probably from some chateau where Stahl had visited and commandeered it. 

"Did you get any information from them?" Dietrich asked, taking one in self· preservation. It didn't do to get on Stahl's bad side. 

"Please, have a seat, Herr Hauptmann," Stahl said generously, waving to one of the brocade-backed chairs that faced his desk. He settled in his leather chair, and took a suck on his cigarette, expelling the smoke in a circle.

Dietrich sat down, the end of the cigarette burning a shade brighter than the carpet. 

"Only four of the men were still alive by the lime I got there. They refused to give up any information but I have all their papers, and identification," Stahl related casually. "All four were wounded in their drop. They would not have lived long even with medical care." 

"Then why the bullet in the back of the head?" 

"Mercy, Herr Hauptmann. I could have sent them to Berlin but they would not have survived the trip. Their wounds were fataL" 

Dietrich despised the man opposite him but it wasn't hard to do. He couldn't let it show in his eyes or his face. One wrong move and Dietrich could be questioned by Stahl and no one would say a word. "They were prisoners of war," Dietrich commented lightly, the smoke curling up from his cigarette. 

"They were scum to be disposed of," Stahl replied acidly. "The British are using the northern part of this country for launching raids, Herr Hauptmann! What do you intend to do about it?" 

_Send you up there to clear them out_ , Dietrich thought, _And, hope they have good aim,_ but didn't say it aloud. "The Reich has troops stationed along the coastline-" 

"The watchers cannot guard every fjord," Stahl snapped back. "This place is littered with commandos. The mountains are full of Resistance fighters who kill my men then fade back into the snowy mountain passes. You have to do something about it!" 

"A number of Norwegians have joined the Waffen SS," Dietrich said softly. "Not every man is against us." 

"The country is not ours," the Gestapo man retorted. "You know that. Did you not lose several men a week ago?" 

Dietrich barely kept himself from flinching. The death of three of his troopers had led to reprisals which he had had to oversee. The entire village where his troops had been ambushed was razed to the ground and the inhabitants, mostly old men and women with a few children, had been deported south. He didn't like abusing civilians; it wasn't part of his job when he had joined the Army. He was sure that none of the deportees had been part of the ambush. He was equally certain they'd never see Norway again. "That was handled in the usual way, Major Stahl." 

"You should have shot them," Stahl said dispassionately. "That would have made an impression on the countryside." 

Dietrich retorted, “It would not have served a purpose. The Resistance were long gone. The civilians left behind where those who couldn't run away in time." 

Stahl went over to the windows. The soldiers had finally finished loading the bodies onto the cart. "Look out there, Hauptmann Dietrich. The grey, the people who do not smile, the persistent smell of salt air and the cold. I do not know how I will take the winter in this dreary place." 

"It's better than the Russian front," Dietrich said dryly, sucking in the smoke of the cigarette. He noticed that the ash had dropped on the carpet. He didn't care. 

"You know that?" Stahl turned, observing him carefully. 

"I spent several months there," Dietrich admitted cautiously, hiding his emotions. In the great retreat, which the War Office hadn't admitted yet, he had helped bring the tanks out of the miserable snows of Russia. The death of Didior and Rommel's assistance had gotten him transferred to snowy Norway rather than shot. Rommel had promised that he would bring Dietrich back to his staff as soon as possible. 

"I have a report on that somewhere." Stahl said looking at his desk. Dietrich stiffened, and the Gestapo officer gave his false smile to reassure him. "Don't be alarmed, Herr Hauptmann. I like to know the officers I work with." 

Dietrich's chill wasn't caused by the Norwegian weather. Was this a threat? He'd have to wait and see. He changed the topic. "So these commandos told you nothing of their mission?" 

“Nein. I will forward you any information from their goods," Stahl said with fake generosity. 

The officer didn't believe it for a second but didn't let his disbelief show. "That is good, Major Stahl. I will look forward to receiving it." He stood and saluted. "Heil Hitler!" 

Stahl saluted back with the same salutation. 

His hand on the open door, Dietrich paused. "Major, you wished to see me at this morning. Why?" 

"To discuss the commandos, Herr Hauptmann." 

"I see." 

"And the new offensive that is being planned this spring, Hauptmann Dietrich." 

Dietrich eyed him coldly. “You have information that I don't?" 

"It should be here by eleven, Herr Hauptmann," Stahl said with a bare tracery of mockery in his voice. "I will keep you informed." 

Dietrich curtly nodded and went into the cold anteroom, not bothering to close the door. Let Frau Etta do it. He doubted the woman was warming Stahl's bed but at least she could guard his door. 

His boots rang on the cold marble floor as he crossed the patterned tiles, went down the stairs and outside into the morning light. It almost felt as hot as North Africa after being inside. 

His anger flowered back into life as he saw the wagon, with its grisly load, leaving the courtyard. He followed it, one of his detachment of soldiers trailing at his heels since no officer walked unguarded on the streets. The cart turned and headed up the street. Several blocks away from Gestapo Headquarters, he increased his speed and reached the front of the wagon. He held up his hand commandingly. "Halt!" 

A gathering crowd watched in silence. and growing menace. He realized that he was surrounded by hostility. but ignored them all. They wouldn't dare touch him after the last set of reprisals. 

"Where are you taking them?" Dietrich demanded in German. 

The man sat dumbly, his eyes on the tufted mane of the horse in front of him. 

Dietrich cursed under his breath, and looked around. Not a familiar face in the crowd. "I asked where you are taking the bodies," he finally repeated, making his words into an order. The man glanced at him, then at the soldier who was holding the gun ready. Dietrich waved his hand, and the soldier dropped back a step. The driver rattled off something in Norwegian, then feeling he'd done his duty, raised his hands to start the horses again. 

"Wait," Dietrich ordered, and looked around desperately. "Does anyone know what he said?" 

"They're going to the local churchyard to be cast into an unmarked grave, Herr Hauptmann," a familiar woman's voice said hesitantly. Sigrid stepped out from the crowd, the men and women moving away from her as if she was infected with plague. "The Major ordered it.” 

Dietrich's lips thinned, Typical of Stahl. The man never knew when to stop. This would disgust the people and create even more trouble for the occupying troops, which meant him. Maybe Stahl did know what he was doing. "Take them to the local church and give them a proper burial," he ordered the man. "I will find out the names for the gravestones." 

The driver and Sigrid stared at him in disbelief and the crowd rustled, whispering among themselves. Dietrich knew he was the center of all the eyes, but for once he didn't feel as if they were going to shoot him down. "That will cost money, Herr Hauptmann," Sigrid whispered. "Who will pay for it?" 

"I will bring the money with me today. Tell the pastor that," Dietrich promised. He glanced at the bodies, seeing again the marks of torture and pain. His disgust nearly choked him. This was no way to treat the enemy. Disrespect for the dead had no place in the honor of Germany. "Does he understand, Sigrid?'" 

She smiled faintly, and addressed the driver in Norwegian. The grizzled man nodded, his shrewd gaze on Dietrich, then he clucked to the horse. The wagon rolled onwards, the people faIling in behind it as if were a funeral cortege for the honored dead. 

Which it was, Dietrich thought watching it out of sight. Turning abruptly, he caught sight of the soldier who was staring at him. He knew what he had done would be reported to Stahl within an hour and probably the Gestapo man would be in his office to demand to know why Dietrich had done it. Just in time, in fact, Dietrich thought glancing at his watch, for his eleven o'clock meeting. Good. He could get the names of the dead men then. And this time Stahl would come to him. 

GERMANY-March 1943 

The line of prisoners shuffled towards the boxcars parked at the train station that would take them to their next POW camp. The station was in the center of the small town. The evacuation overtasked the guards and their reaction was to be even more strict and sometimes brutal with the prisoners. II took the combined efforts of the officers of all the armies to make sure untoward happened. Everyone remembered that the commandant shot escapees. Troy, Pierson and Hitchcock were near the end of the line. There seemed to be a problem up ahead. Too many men, too few boxcars. 

Troy wrinkled his nose against the smell. Several thousand men crowded into the same area smelled terrible. Overhead they heard the growl of airplanes as thousands of feet overhead, a flight of bombers headed north. The white stars on their sides made some of the men cheer, but the guards reacted by shouting orders and striking out with the butts of their rifles, and the sound soon stopped. 

"That's why they're moving us," Hitchcock commented, looking up and shading his eyes. Troy missed the red Foreign Legion cap he usually wore. It had been left behind in the sand. 

"Maybe we 'won't get bombed by our own side this time," Pierson joked, his hands deep in his pockets. "That was getting a bit tiresome." 

"Sarge!" Hitchcock said looking at the street nearby. "Look!" 

Behind the line of German soldiers who were guarding the crowd, a German staff car parked and a familiar officer got out. "Oberstleutnant Pregger," Troy muttered, looking over. "Damn, I thought he'd forgotten me." 

"Guess they remembered," Hitchcock murmured. 

Pierson glanced their way in puzzlement. His dark eyes caught their worried looks, and traced them to the Gestapo officer who had bullied his way through the crowd and was heading towards the boxcars where the camp commandant was waiting. "Old friends, Sergeant Troy?”

"Not the way I'd put it," Troy said in disgust. 

Pregger found the Commandant and proffered a sheaf of orders. The officer nodded, and waved to a soldier beside him. Pregger and the soldier walked down the line of prisoners, surveying them disdainfully. The captives were silent until the Gestapo men passed, then crude comments were yelled behind their backs, until the officers snapped orders to stop. 

Troy felt a tinge of sympathy for the British and American officers in charge. No matter how they personally might feel about the Germans, they had to keep the men in line or risk having them shot or beaten. The laws of the Geneva Convention didn't permit the mistreatment of prisoners, but it still happened. 

Pregger reached Troy, and stopped. Except for Hitchcock and Pierson. the prisoners around him edged back, leaving empty space. 

"Sergeant Troy? You will come with me.”

"Like hell he will!''' Hitchcock said in an undertone. His impulsive movement was stopped by Pierson, who caught his arm and held him back. He sent Hitchcock a warning glance. 

Pregger surveyed the young man and sniffed, then turned to Troy. He raised an eyebrow. "A friend of yours, Sergeant?" 

Troy stiffened. and the soldier behind Pregger clutched his gun more tightly sensing a threat. "Old buddy." 

"Maybe he'd like to come along." 

"Sure," Hitchcock burst out. "Sarge-" 

"Hitch, shut up!" Troy ordered. "Where now, Pregger?" 

"Oberstleutnant Pregger, Sergeant!" the man thundered 

Troy's reply was lost in a series of high-pitched whistles, then a roar as a bomb landed nearby. The prisoners and guards choked on the dust and concrete that went flying from the impact site, not fifty yards away. Hitchcock glanced at Troy and saw a familiar glint in his eyes. Troy looked around at the crowds, and took a half-step back away from the Gestapo man. 

He was brought up sharply by one of the camp guards, who shoved him back. 

Another set of whistles made the line of men scatter in all directions. Those already loaded in the boxcars tried to get out. Another whistle and a bomb landed just up the narrow street. Everyone still in the yard was knocked off their feet. Men hit by flying fragments screamed with pain. Hitchcock got to his feet, dazed. Blood trickled down his neck from a graze on his ear. He brushed it back. "Sarge?" 

"Over here," Pierson called from the right. "He's here, Hitch." 

Through the smoke and dust, Hitch finally saw Pierson had his arm around Troy, who was swaying as if he had taken a blow from something. Oberstleutnant Pregger faced them, pistol in his hand, while one guard was still on his feet. 

"Let's get inside," Pierson said to the officer. 

Pregger suspiciously waved them towards the inside of the station. 

Hitchcock felt the hairs on his neck rise. Pierson was going to do something. he could feel it. "I'll help you." 

He slid his arm under Troy's other shoulder. and felt the man's strong reassuring grip before Troy sagged convincingly. He was faking his condition. Hitchcock smothered a sudden surge of hope as he helped Pierson carry Troy inside the dark building. 

Pregger, the guard, Pierson, Troy and Hitchcock were the only people in a roomful of abandoned suitcases, bags of food, and scattered clothing. The continuing bombing had sent the other people elsewhere in a futile search for a safe haven. Pierson let Troy sag to the ground, and stood over him. "You'll have to get a doctor, Oberstleutnant." 

"He's not injured-" 

Whistle! Boom! The building shook and the glass shattered, startling the guard, 'who jumped and pulled the trigger on his gun. The bullets pocketed the ceiling and everyone flinched. Pregger looked up at the plaster flaking down. 

That was the moment Pierson had been waiting for. Closest to the guard, he struck out hard, smashing his fist into the man's solar plexus. The guard gasped, dropped his gun and collapsed, hugging his chest. 

Troy lunged for Pregger. The Gestapo man had been completely taken by surprise by Pierson's movement and was gaping, his pistol sagging in his hand. With one swift punch, Troy hit him under the chin, knocking him back against the wall. The Luger went flying into the next room. 

Hitchcock hit the guard, knocking him unconscious. As Troy was getting up, Pierson hit Pregger hard and his neck snapped back with an ugly crack. The man slumped to the ground, dead. 

Panting. they looked at each other in disbelief. finally realizing what they'd done. From the moment Pierson had first hit out, they were committed to something. The dead man at their feet meant they'd gel no mercy from the Germans no matter what happened. 

"What now. Sarge?" Hitchcock finally broke the silence. Overhead the bombers wailed and dropped their loads, but the three men ignored the danger. "What do we do?" 

Troy glanced from him to Pierson. "You got a plan? You're the one who started this." 

Pierson coughed harshly. ''I've got one." Hitchcock realized the man's personality. It was as if Pierson had been waiting for his chance, and now he had it. He hadn't expected Troy and Hitch to be involved and the plans were changing. Who was this man? Hitch thought he'd known him. but now he knew he didn' t. 

Pierson finally caught his breath. "How much of a risk are you willing to run?" 

"We've got nothing left to lose," Troy said acidly as he went for Pregger's gun, which was on the threshold of the next room. 

"No, leave that," Pierson ordered, almost automatically, "We've got to get out of here right now." 

"What'd you have in mind?" Troy asked, turning to face him. 

"Our passes are good forgeries but to get where we need to go, we'lI need an edge," Pierson said. He pulled off the heavy overcoat and tossed it onto one of the benches. He began to strip off his clothes. 

"What are you-oh, no," Troy said, understanding dawning on his face. 

"I don't know what his orders were originally, but now he's going to Norway," Pierson said succinctly. "Are you coming or not?" He began to strip the Gestapo officer of his uniform. 

"How the hell do you plan on pulling this off?" Hitchcock gasped in sheer disbelief.

Pierson stopped and looked at them both. “It would be a lot easier with you both." He choked, then cleared his throat. "Damn this cold!" 

"With us?" Hitchcock asked in disbelief. 

Troy saw the plan clearly. "What do you plan to do if we say no, Pierson?" 

The man paused. then faced them, his face a mask. "What would I have planned. Sergeant Troy?" 

"I don't think you'd let us tell them about you, would you?" Troy questioned. staring at him suspiciously. "How would we die?" 

"I don't have any plans for killing you, Sergeant. Never did. This is being done, Ah, 'off the cuff?" Pierson slid into the German's jacket. It hung loosely around him. 

"How do we know we can trust you?" Troy asked flatly. 

"You can't," Pierson replied in the same tone. "You have one chance to stay alive, gentlemen. You can come with me, or you can face the Gestapo when they ask questions about your Oberst, Troy." He fastened the jacket. "What do you choose?" 

With an icy chill. Hitchcock realized that either they did it Pierson's way, or they would end up as dead as the officer. Whoever Pierson really was. he was a ruthless deviL Hitchcock had no doubt that he'd shoot them down before he left. Glancing at Troy, he saw that he realized the same thing. Troy didn't like it; that was clear from the set expression of his lips. Then he glanced at Hitchcock and nodded. ''I'm in then," Hitchcock agreed. "What do you want me to do?" 

"Get into his clothes," Pierson ordered, waving at the guard. "From now on you're an Oberleutnant in the German Army." 

"Hitch, you realize you could be shot if you are captured in that uniform?"' Troy said in an undertone. 

"We're already dead," Hitchcock said philosophically. "The Germans will probably just shoot us out of hand, Sarge." He began stripping the unconscious man. 

"Troy, check outside," ordered Pierson, putting on Pregger's clothing. "See what's going on. 

Troy obeyed reluctantly. He slid up to the door and gazed outside. just as another flight of bombers went overhead. Before the bombs struck, he spotted the abandoned train yard. Numerous bodies lying under the train or beside the boxcars. Nothing was moving. A cloud of dust flooded the area, and the ground shook as a bomb went off a couple of streets away. Troy dodged back indoors, his hand over his mouth. 

"More explosives?"' Pierson asked, bundling his prison garb into a bag that had been abandoned by one of the German travelers. 

"Yeah," Troy said. "I'd say you've got about three minutes," 

''I'm ready," Pierson replied, setting the Gestapo cap on his head. "Hitch?" 

Hitchcock fastened up the tunic, and set his cap on his head. He caught a look at himself in one of the broken windows and grimaced. He had the clear-cut features and golden hair of the ideal Hitler youth, something that had come in handy on other occasions. He heard a grunt from the man at his feet. and hit him behind the ear, sending him back into unconsciousness. 

Pierson noticed the movement and his eyes narrowed. "We'll have to do something about him," he said thoughtfully. 

"Let the bombs do it," Troy retorted. "Time's running out." 

"What if-never mind," Pierson replied, seeing Troy's expression. "Who are you, Hitch?" 

Hitchcock pulled out his identification. "Oberleutnant Helmut Saffer, Herr Oberstleutnant." He gave the Nazi salute and clicked his heels. 

"We'll have to pretend you've got a throat injury," Pierson said clinically, "Your accent"s terrible." He switched his attention to Troy. "How's your German?" 

"Non-existent." 

"Well, we won't need to deal with that for a while, Let's get moving," Pierson barked, 

Troy picked up an overcoat abandoned by some passenger and threw it on over his worn prison shirt. The pants would pass muster while the shoes didn't look like military issue. He looked like a civilian who was now traveling with a Gestapo man. Picking up a hat, he folded it in his hands, then put it on his head. It felt strange with one of the comfort of the Australian bush hat he had worn for years. Catching sight of his reflection. he saw he looked almost like a businessman. All he needed was a briefcase. Seeing one lying next to the doorway, he picked it up. "Ready." 

"Let's hope the car is still running," Pierson muttered. "Hitch, go get it. It's at the other end of the station." 

Hitchcock saluted, and went outside. leaving Pierson and Troy in the empty room, 

Overhead they heard the drone of airplanes. "The raid's coming back," Troy commented. He regarded the officer in front of him, "Do you really think this will work, Pierson?" 

Pierson eyed him through narrowed lids. "You'd better hope it will. I have no compunctions about leaving you and Hitch on your own." 

"How desperate are you to escape?" Troy had a growing suspicion that there was more involved here than just getting away from the Germans. Who was this man? 

Pierson gave a quick smile that took years off of him, "I won't be taken alive again, Troy. Will you make sure of that?" 

Their gazes met in understanding. Troy knew that whoever the man opposite him was, Luke Pierson or not, he was playing a game deeper than just escaping to freedom. He was taking a desperate chance, Troy and Hitch were expendable if they got in the way. There was no way that Troy would be able to make it to a neutral or Allied country without Pierson's help. It galled him. 

"You want me to make sure of that?” Troy said harshly. "Just asking academically .... " 

Pierson's lips curled in a reluctant smile. "You do that. Sergeant Troy. I trust you'll do it neatly."

“I'll do my best," Troy promised. They heard the roar of the car’s engine. They went out into the dust and debris of the raid. Men were clambering to their feet, guards were starting to emerge from the shadows, and Hitchcock held open the door like a good chauffeur. 

Behind him, Troy heard Pierson's footsteps go over to the anteroom, then he heard a clink. Pierson came out of the building and gave him a shove. 

"Get moving!" he barked. Troy fell into the back seat, followed by Pierson. Hitchcock got into the front and started the engine. Pierson lapped Hitchcock on the shoulder. "Get moving!" 

"What's the hurry?"' Troy muttered aloud. 

Behind them, something exploded, showering the leather roof of the staff car with rocks. plaster and wooden latticing. The railway station exploded. The ground rocked, looking out the back. Troy saw both guards and prisoners down in wounded heaps. Dust obscured the view as Hitchcock sped away. 

"What did you do?"

“There was a bomb in the room next to us," Pierson replied coolly. his hands steady as he lit a cigarette, "I saw it before we went in, I just -" 

"Are you saying that there was a live bomb in the next room the 'whole time!" Hitchcock asked in disbelief. 

"I took the chance that it wouldn't go off while we were there," Pierson admitted, 

"You had this planned out. didn't you?" Troy asked, "Every detail.'" 

"No. I did not. I do believe in making the most of every opportunity, Sergeant Troy!”

"Why'd you set it off?" Troy asked. 

"You mean it didn't just go off?" Hitchcock called questioned from the front seat. He drove the car at a moderate speed through the narrow streets heading as far away from the train station as possible, Allied bombers still roared overhead, and the ground shook as bombs went off to their right. One plane, the right engine on fire. was descending towards the city, Hitchcock hoped the airmen would bailout. even if they were going to be taken prisoners, They couldn't live through the impact. 

Pierson met Troy's angry glare, "You know why. The guard, He would have told them about us. It had to be done," 

"I hope your mission is worth it, Pierson," Troy muttered. “Whatever it is." 

The other man didn't reply, He leaned back into the softness of the cushions and closed his eyes, The civilians stared at them angrily as the car drove by. It was practically the only thing moving on the road.

"Uh, I hate to break this up," Hitchcock said apologetically. "But where the hell am I going?"


	3. Dangerous parties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations and new dangers in Europe and in America

NORWAY-March 1943 

Hans Dietrich respectfully took off his cap as he walked up to the gathering outside the wooden shingled church. It was one of the oldest in Norway, decorated with the type of carved dragons that had seen duty as Viking prows nine hundred years before, The setting sun cast their savage shadows on the rocky soil of the valley while around the building mountains rose steeply into the blue sky. Mist was already gathering on the road as the day cooled. 

The small group of old men and women, some with children tugging on their skirts, gaped at him when he came up, then turned their heads away or down, hoping not to be noticed, 

Dietrich understood why. This was the service for the four men whose bodies were in the coffins, the closest draped in an illicit Union Jack, while the furthest had the banned red Norwegian flag with its white-outlined blue cross. Small bouquets of early spring flowers sat on the other two coffins. Few civilians would want the Germans to know that they came to such an event. It would be perceived as disloyalty to the Reich and could be punishable. He could make a guess that if any of the Norwegian freedom fighters or other commandos had been there to pay their respects, they were probably now inside. He didn't feel like testing his theory. His small troop would be wiped out and then who would be around to deal with Major Stahl? He fastened his gaze on the pastor who had hesitated, stopped and was gazing uncertainly at the officer, and stopped by the edge of the crowd beside a woman. Sigrid shot him a quick glance. then looked down at her hands. The drab brown and red scarf around her hair hid most of her face. 

"Continue," Dietrich ordered the pastor. 

The man continued the service, hurrying his words, patently uncomfortable, He reached the end and folded his bible, and put it inside his cassock. The small cross gleamed in the last rays of sunshine. 

Looking to one side. Dietrich saw piles of dirt where the four men would be laid to rest. Seeing uncertainty on the pastor's face, Dietrich walked out and formally saluted the coffins, then walked up to him. The pastor retreated two steps under the porch, then held his ground, 

Pulling out a small wad of bills, Dietrich held them out. "I believe you have expenses for this funeral that must be met?" 

"}a, Herr Hauptmann," the man replied. "For the grave diggers," 

"Save some for candles," Dietrich replied. "I'm sure you need them inside," 

The pastor nodded. His reply was drowned out by the roar of a truck and a following car that pulled up next to Dietrich's small staff car. The long shiny black hood denoted Stahl's importance even before the jack-booted officer got out of the back seat. 

The crowd muttered and some started away, to be stopped by the troops. 

Dietrich felt himself flush angrily. Despite their pleasant discussion earlier in the day. Stahl had decided to move against the dead men and the church. Fool! He stalked down the stairs from the porch towards Stahl, who obviously hadn't expected to see him, "What are you doing?" Dietrich barked. 

Stahl glared at him. "You gave orders about these men!" 

"They were soldiers and deserve a decent burial. We agreed on this, Major!" 

''They were underhanded cowards who should be left to the crows," Stahl said deliberately, letting his words being heard by the crowd. "I have orders to let that happen. Herr Hauptmann," 

"Orders. Herr Major?" 

Stahl smugly pulled a sheet of paper out of his jacket. "From Berlin, Hauptmann Dietrich." 

Dietrich cursed silently. Stahl had gone over his head. "Leaving them unburied is hardly ... realistic, Herr Major!" 

While he was reading the sheet. two of Stahl's guards moved forward. and inserted a chisel under one of the coffin lids. Their wrenching tipped over the coffin. There was a gasp of superstitious fear, then of surprise when nothing fell out. In fact, there wasn't even a thud. 

Stahl's face went a dangerous shade of red as he stalked over to the open coffin, The two soldiers stepped out of the way. It was empty. Dietrich knew that the others would also be empty. Wherever the bodies were, they were out of reach of Stahl. The dead men were safe but what about the living? 

“Major, as you see, it is all for show," Dietrich said, folding up Stahl's order and handing it back. "I had this arranged so that I could find out who is disloyal to the Reich. I had planned on taking the names of everyone here for later interrogation." 

The pastor looked very upset, and someone in the crowd gasped. Dietrich could hear someone crying. "You have ruined my plan, Herr Major," Dietrich added with more than a touch of reproof. 

Stahl gathered the shreds of his dignity. "The flags. I will take the flags with me." Waving his hand, one of his aides dragged the flags off the coffins. and bundled them into his arms. They were a bright splotch of color against the drab uniform. "Heil Hitler, Hauptmann Dietrich!" 

Dietrich saluted. and watched as Stahl and his troops drove off, leaving Dietrich with his small group of soldiers and a far larger crowd of civilians who were eyeing him nervously. Dietrich sighed. He looked at the coffins, the crowd, then at the pastor. "I believe that most of these people are necessary for production of goods for the Reich, correct?” 

The pastor nodded, looking suspicious. "They are from the farms, Herr Hauptmann." 

"I'm sure I could round them up if necessary," Dietrich stated, staring him in the eye meaningfully. "I will leave several soldiers to take names, and report back to me in an hour." 

"Ja. Herr Hauptmann," the man agreed, realizing that he wasn't about to be arrested. His relief was patent. Both he and Dietrich knew that the names were likely to be false. 

Dietrich only wished that he could have left Lipken here. The name takers were likely to be shot at and it would do his disloyal lieutenant good to get a taste of real combat. The pastor would bury the commandos safely out of Stahl's reach. That was the way Dietrich wanted it as well. Now, he had to beat a dignified retreat. He settled for turning his back and heading for his car. The shadows of the dragons had almost reached the bonnet. "Gutted Tag, Herr Pastor." 

"Ja, Herr Hauptmann Dietrich. Go with God." 

GERMANY-March 1943 

Hitchcock drove the staff car through the countryside where farmers eyed it in puzzlement, but didn't question the authority of the arrogant officer who sat in the back beside the subdued civilian. Pierson leaned back against the leather cushions, his chin jutting out like Mussolini, while Troy leaned back and kept as much out of sight as he could. Occasionally, Hitchcock's gaze flickered to the mirror and met Troy’s. Both were puzzled by their companion but said nothing. 

Troy wondered if, for some reason, Pierson had singled out Hitch in the prison camp. Hitch had mentioned that he had told Pierson about their work in North Africa. Had Pierson been scoping him out? From the way he acted, there was more to Pierson than it seemed. 

For one thing, he knew the area like a native. First he directed Hitchcock to drive north out of the bombed city until they reached a roadblock. Dealing with the soldiers with the overbearing arrogance of the Gestapo, he bullied their way through the roadblock, and then, once they were out of sight, told Hitch to drive down a side road. They hadn't met any other problems in the last hour. 

"You know this part of Germany?" Troy asked casually. 

Pierson smiled. "I did a great deal of traveling here before the war. Looking into manufacturing work, talking with people." 

"You were spying for the British?"

"I was a businessman, Sergeant, with work down here," Pierson replied coolly. He stared at Troy. daring him to ask more, then dropped his gaze to the briefcase. "What's in there?" 

Troy looked at the bag that he had carried out of the station. "I don't know. Probably some kind of paperwork." 

"Might be worth looking at." 

Troy shrugged, and pulled the leather case up onto the seat. It had a leather strap folded over between the handles, and a small lock. "Got a way to pick it. ... " His fingers fumbled with the lock, and it snapped open. "It's unlocked." 

He peeked inside, then reached in and pulled out a sheaf of papers. A pen fell out and disappeared behind the cushions. 

Pierson took the papers and began scanning. "Herr Voktier was in charge of a small factory that deals with ... making buttons. He just signed a deal to expand his business." 

"I hope that it goes through," Troy said, feeling inside. "What's this?" He pulled out a small camera. 

Reaching for it, Pierson gave the first delighted smile that Troy had seen on the stern face. "That's a find! Does it have any film?" 

"It's a Leica," Troy commented. handing it over. "Looks pre·War." 

"It would have to be. All the optics are being made for the Luftwaffe now," Pierson said. He turned the camera over in his hands. "Ah, it has some shots left." He leaned forward and tapped on Hitchcock's shoulder. "Take the right turn. We should come to some farms. Stop by anyone you think is abandoned." 

"Why?" Troy challenged him. 

"Your identification," Pierson replied equally abrupt. "Where is it?'

Troy remembered the notebook in his pocket. Luckily, he had transferred it before leaving the station. Pulling it out, he held it up. "This?" 

"Open it up." Troy complied. The face of an unknown man with curly brownish hair. slicked back, started back at him. "That's who you are. Your occupation is a painter and you're not terribly good at it because you don't speak German." Pierson pointed to the picture. "However, you don't look much like your picture." 

Troy nodded. "So where are we going to get the new one developed?" 

"We'll have to take a risk and go into one of the small towns," Pierson said. "Pregger must have been on the black market. His wallet is crammed with Reichmarks. We'll take your picture and substitute it for Lieutenant Mellenhouse's."

"Wasn't Mellenhouse moved out last week?" Hitchcock asked. 

"Yes. That's why I had his papers with me. I hadn't destroyed them yet." 

"What about the stamps?" Troy said. "On the picture." 

Pierson looked down at his uniform. "This has to be good for something. I'll get some of the right ink for forging the rest of the marks. Hitch, do you think you can talk them into developing the pictures?" 

"My German's not real good, Luke." 

"It doesn't have to be. Remember, according to your papers, you grew up in America but came back to the Fatherland. Wave enough money around and tell the man you want your family pictures developed so you can send them home. Play it for all it's worth." 

"And if the shots are of buildings and parks?" Hitch demanded. 

"Fake it," Troy retorted. He eyed Pierson with growing approval. The man did think fast on his feet. 

Hitchcock finally slowed beside a rundown house where the roof had fallen in. It was also set away from the road and had a place to turn around. 

Troy lined up against the wall, feeling uncomfortably like he was going to his own firing squad, and managed a faint smile as Hitchcock snapped off two shots. Pierson took over the camera and used the rest of the roll to shoot a picture of the house with Hitchcock surveying it in disgust, the neighboring fields, and a beautiful early rose.

"Why?" Hitchcock asked, his hands on his hips. 

"Travel shots," Troy replied. "You're a soldier who just came back to find the family home--" 

"Had been devastated by those rotten English and the equally vile Americans," Pierson answered, handing him the camera. "Let's get moving. We can't assume that the Germans are going to completely forget about Pregger and not start looking for their missing prisoners and the car sooner or later." 

The others nodded. Hitchcock drove the car down the rutted lanes until he reached a paved road. then turned right. The sign said Berlin.

By early afternoon they came over a hill and saw a small town below. From the size of the buildings and the roads, it would probably have what they needed. 

"Right, now, let's take it smoothly. Hitch, drop me off at the local railway station. You can see it there on the outskirts. Come back, after you've gotten' the pictures developed." 

"Planning a trip for us?" Troy asked suspiciously. 

"Yes," Pierson replied flatly. 

"Where? France? Italy?" 

"We're heading for Norway," Pierson announced. 

Troy thought ahout the map of Europe he had been forced to study as a child and knew that they were on the road to disaster. The path that led to Sweden went across Germany and the neutrality of Denmark. To get to Norway was even worse. What the hell was Pierson thinking? 

Hitchcock verbalized his very thoughts. "Norway? Why there?" 

Pierson's face closed down. "It's the safest place I know," 

Troy shook his head trying to understand, "Safest? For whom?" 

“For all of us." 

"What about Switzerland?" Hitchcock asked. 

"That's a dead end," Pierson said flatly, "Do you want to be interned for the rest of the war? Take us into town." 

"Norway's on the other side of Berlin, Pierson! It's all the way through the Netherlands. What the hell are you thinking?" Troy said incredulously. 

"We'll be safer in Norway than anywhere else, Much safer than France or Switzerland. Escapees tend to head there," Pierson explained. 

Troy knew there was more to it but the time had run out. The car swooped around a corner and slowed as the traffic increased, Pierson retreated behind his Gestapo pose and didn't even glance at Troy as Hitchcock stopped the car in front of the station. He disembarked, and paused. 

From his expression, Hitchcock understood about half of what Pierson rattled off in German, but he saluted and drove off slowly. In the rear window, Troy saw Pierson stride into the station, people moving out of his way when they saw his rank, and disappear within. 

The afternoon was nerve-wracking. They found a photographer and persuaded him to develop their pictures, paying him in advance. Hitchcock's winsome smile and good looks impressed the wife of the proprietor, and she fluttered around, ignoring Troy, who was examining cameras for sale. The store had very little in the way of stock but he was stretching his loitering for all he was worth. He couldn’t risk being separated from Hitch, who spoke a little German. 

Troy was mildly amused when after several hours, the proprietor came out with the small photos in his hand, and started to remonstrate with his wife. The paper was still wet. 

The pictures were of a lovely wife with four little urchins of assorted ages, in the backyard of a small house. Troy admired Hitch's coolness as he surveyed the shots and explained in broken German that "Heidi and the children" were safely out of harm's way. The wife's ardor cooled when she saw the offspring, though in Troy's opinion, Hitchcock would have had to have married as a child to have offspring of that age. 

Troy left the store before Hitchcock, walking slowly up the block acting as much like a tired businessman going home from work. A minute later. Hitchcock joined him, a cocky young soldier enjoying the pictures in his hands. 

Glancing over his shoulder, Troy saw the mug shot had worked out okay. It was the right size for the identification papers. 

"Car?" Hitchcock breathed as he passed. 

"Ditch it," Troy advised. "Walk."

“'Pierson…”

"He can walk." 

Hitchcock nodded and they continued walking into town, passing soldiers and civilians. The war had struck even this small town with rationing signs posted prominently in windows, and small cuts of meat displayed for the local market. Women loitered with their shopping, discussing problems with getting food or clothing. Children, playing war games, ran by the two escapees. Troy had never been so relieved as when he saw the station's cocked roof ahead of him. 

Hitchcock put out his hand and Troy stopped, glancing at him. "Over there." Troy saw a familiar figure leaving the telegraph station across the street. A tram rumbled between them followed by several cars. "Pierson?" 

They waited as he crossed the street, not noticing them, and was stopped by another Gestapo officer who had two soldiers with him. Troy felt a lump growing in his throat. They'd come so far. 

Pierson looked around casually and saw Hitchcock. There was a flash of relief for a second, then he beckoned imperiously. His gesture was somewhat spoiled by a coughing fit that racked his thin body. The Gestapo man looked concerned and Pierson had to assure him that he was fine. 

Troy wandered apart from them, watching out of the corner of his eye. 

Hitchcock saluted both officers. Pierson turned back and began to talk, obviously explaining that Hitchcock had been late in arriving but that they were leaving on the next train to Berlin. The officer understood this and made some kind of joke that made Pierson laugh. then they saluted each other. The newcomer, followed by his aides, strolled to the large staff car that had driven up while Pierson watched. As the car drove off. Pierson flicked a glance at Hitchcock, then Troy, and strolled inside the station. 

It was dark and cool, and depressingly tidy. Most of the passengers had already boarded the train and only the manager and a couple of wounded soldiers were in the building. Three men were walking down the platform stopping people at random and examining their identity papers. Troy's heart sank. 

Pierson dropped his hand to his pocket and cursed. He began to search, then turned and jabbed a finger at Hitchcock's chest. Hitchcock didn't know what he was saying so he kept his expression wooden . Troy realized a second later that Pierson was putting on an act, and hunched in his coat. With a final angry comment. Pierson turned and walked out of the station, Hitchcock trailing behind obediently. Moments later, Troy followed them out to the street. 

They walked to where they had abandoned the staff car and got inside. Troy casually climbed in alongside Pierson who poked Hitchcock in the shoulder and shot him an order. The shadows were long by the time they reached the abandoned farmhouse. They hid the car in the long underbrush and went silently inside. 

The building had been abandoned, with no furniture or pictures left on the stained wallpaper. There was a kettle in the kitchen on a cast-iron stove but nothing else. The hardwood floors creaked ominously under their feet. 

"Did you get the pictures?" Pierson asked breaking the tension, 

"Yeah," Hitchcock said in relief and pulling out the shots. "Did you get the tickets?" 

"Did you buy tickets?" Troy asked, staring at Pierson, Something had been bothering him about the entire scene in the station and finally he realized what it was. "What were you doing at the telegraph station?" 

"You sent a telegram?" Hitchcock asked his voice full of suspicion. "Where?" 

Pierson glanced at him. He obviously debated whether to answer. "To where we're going," he finally said reluctantly. Holding up the picture of Troy, in the fading sunlight, he glanced from the paper to the man, and nodded. 'This will do." 

"Who did you send a message to?" Troy snapped. "Damnit, Pierson, give us something. We're in this too!" 

"I can't do that," Pierson replied firmly. "You have to trust me-ugh!" 

Troy's hands shot up, and shoved Pierson hard against the wall. The plaster rattled. "Talk now or the trip ends right here," he said threateningly. "I've had it with you, Pierson!" 

Pierson's gaze went to Hitchcock who didn't move. There wasn't any help to be had from that source. Lifted his hands in protest, Pierson choked as Troy increased the pressure on his throat. 

Finally, Pierson nodded. "Let me go," he whispered. 

Troy leaned back slightly enough to let the man speak. "Go on." 

"I'm an intelligence agent for Ml-6," Pierson started reluctantly. "British Intelligence." 

“Thought so," Hitchcock muttered. 

Troy shook his head and the young man shut up. "So?" 

"About eight months ago, I went into France to meet with the Maquis in the mountains," Pierson continued, . "I was dropped on the coast near Monaco." 

The sergeant couldn't decide whether the man was lying or telling the truth. He leaned back, letting Pierson slide down the wall. “Go on." 

The man pulled his uniform tunic straight. "The meeting went bad. I was picked up by the Italians and shipped to a prisoner-of-war camp." 

"That's doesn't hold together. You would probably have been picked up by the Vichy, not the Italians if you landed there," Hitchcock said unexpectedly. "Vichy would have given you to the Krauts." 

"Not the whole story, is it. Captain?" Troy said deliberately. "Who are you really?" 

"That's none of your business, Sergeant!" Pierson said in a different tone of voice. The accent was as clipped as Moffitt's. 

Troy remembered thinking 'Who was this man?' back during the escape. It had seemed eerily reminiscent then. Not the first time, he had thought that in the last year. Another mysterious man with an English accent. The last one was dead in the sands of North Africa. This one had the arrogance to be a colonel.. .a colonel? 

Over his shoulder, Troy called, "Hitch. you said you told him about us? Which was he most interested in?" 

With puzzlement showing on his face, Hitchcock replied, “Colonel Alexander and Partridge."

Troy caught a flash in Pierson's eyes. "Alexander and Partridge. When did you say you landed in France? About two months before our raid." He could have sworn he saw a glint of amusement in Pierson's dark eyes. 

"What are you asking, Sergeant?"' 

“If you're really a military intelligence man, you've probably an officer. So, why were you so interested in the Alexander raid?"' 

"I think you know why," Pierson said softly. not moving his gaze from Troy's face. "You've figured it out."

"What? What, Sarge?"' Hitchcock asked puzzled. 

Troy gave an ugly laugh, and slepped back. He waved at Pierson, who was hiding his mouth as he coughed. “Hitch. meet the real Lieutenant Colonel Peter Alexander." 

"What?" Hitchcock gasped. "But he's in North Africa, Sarge!I I mean, Dietrich caught us three, and Moffitt's dead! Alexander had to have gotten away with Felix!" 

Troy had forgotten that Hitchcock still thought Moffitt was dead. This wasn't the time to go into it. "Am I wrong, Colonel?" 

Pierson shook his head again, "You're right. Sergeant. I'm the real Colonel Alexander." 

"Then who was that guy in North Africa?" Hitchcock said indignantly. "Partridge called him, Alexander!" 

"I don't know," Pierson answered, "Some kind of imposter put into place by my people." 

Troy said, his gaze firmly on Pierson. "Colonel Alexander is an important man. So important that he has to be kept alive, right, even if you're captured? How did you become Luke Pierson, Colonel?'" 

Pierson shrugged, and began unfastening the Gestapo coat. "When I found his corpse in a gully in the mountains. I was lucky. You've got some of it. Sergeant Troy. But not the whole picture." 

"Why don't you explain it to us?" Troy suggested, stepping back. 

Pierson sighed, and felt his throat. He sneezed, then coughed. wiping the back of his mouth with his hand. "Is there any water? It’s a long story." 

"I'll get the whiskey bottle from the car." Hitchcock murmured. "Don't start without me." 

He returned with the cut-glass decanter and three small glasses that Pregger had had stashed in the car. After pouring out the amber liquid, the men sat in a circle and Pierson started to explain. "It was early last September, and a fine moonlit night. ... " 

FRANCE-September 1942 

Lieutenant Colonel Peter Alexander felt his foot slip on some stones, and cursed. It was darker than the nethermost pit of hell in these mountains. It had been three days of trekking through the fields and back roads from the Monaco coast into the mountains that provided the border between France and Italy. His muscles ached, 

He had an ugly feeling about this trip. The last man who came to help the Maquis organize had barely set up his equipment before he was captured and handed over to the Germans by the Vichy authorities. Alexander's superior, who used the codename "Williams" had let him see the file on his predecessor so that he knew what he was getting into. The death had been ugly. Still, the job had to be done and he had a contact who he had met before, Lieutenant Ian Partridge who was an athlete who had skied and climbed all over Europe so he knew his way around the area. 

Alexander knew several of the Maquis leaders in the surrounding area having met them before the war, but he had never met his contact, Paul Levert. Williams desperately needed information on both Vichy and Italian movements and Levert was the man in charge of the area, so Alexander was given a cyanide pill and strict instructions on how to use it if he was caught. 

Alexander just refused to think that he might be caught. 

A half-hour later, he emerged into a clearing that overlooked a small town. A path wound down to the smoking chimneys and neatly-plowed fields, all clearly recognizable in the harsh moonlight. He looked around alertly but didn't see any sign of Partridge. What the devil had happened to him? 

His nose caught a trace of cigarette smoke. He sniffed. Fairly fresh. Whoever the smoker was, he had been here recently. The cool September air was laden with pollen and dust, and the smell of fresh hay along with the smoke. A wind was starting to whistle through the mountains, bringing a cold edge. This was the rendezvous spot. Why lights? An icy chill went up his back and he stepped back into the shadows cast by boulders that littered the plateau. Lights? Not blackout? 

Why should it be blacked out? he argued with himself. Who was going to bomb the small town? This was France after all , not London. His instincts warned danger; his mind suggested logical reasons for the unexpected lights. 

Finally. warring with his reluctance, he headed for the path which led downwards. As he moved toward the path, several men came out of the shadowy trees that edged the clearing. Alexander halted, realizing he could be seen clearly in the moonlight. 

One man held up his hands in the air, showing that they were empty. The other one stopped short. He carried a machine gun in the crook of his arm, and his face was hidden under a fedora. 

"Colonel Alexander?" asked the first man in English. 

"Who are you?" Alexander replied in French. 

"I sell paper and ribbons," the man replied giving the code phrase. 

"To wrap my boxes," Alexander countered. “Hello. Partridge. You're late." 

The curly-haired man stopped about ten feet away. "I'm sorry, Sir. Something came up. I'm here to take you to the meeting." 

"I expected to meet you at the landing spot." 

Partridge shrugged. "Levert was detained by the Vichy officials, sir. It took hours before he was free. We had to then escape surveillance." 

"Police? How do you know?" 

"The place is crawling with collaborators, sir," Partridge stated flatly. "They are searching for anyone who supports the Resistance." 

"I see. Very well, lead on," Alexander replied thoughtfully. He wondered if he liked the man or not. Partridge had an edge to him that made him seem arrogant. 

They walked towards the other man. He had an unlit Cigarette in one gnarled hand while the other rested on the machine gun ready lo use it. "This is Paul Levert," Partridge said simply. "Monsieur Levert, this is Colonel Alexander."

"You are the Colonel?" Levert asked. 

Alexander recognized him from photographs smuggled out to London. This was Levert all right. "Yes, I'm Alexander. I hear you were arrested this morning."

Levert nodded. He put the cigarette between his lips, and lit it. The end glowed. "Yes, but they never keep me for long."

"Why not?' Alexander noticed Partridge retreat a few feet away from both of them. 

"I am the leader policeman," Levert said simply. "Nothing happens here without my knowing it." 

"Where are your comrades for our meeting?" 

"Waiting in the village. Come with me," Levert replied, "I have a car." 

Alexander stared at him warily. Something was definitely wrong. "I thought we were going to talk at the landing site."

"Non." The muzzle of the machine gun came up as Levert aimed it at him. "This way, Colonel.”

It was a trap. His gaze went to Partridge, who met it with a slight smile and outstretched hands. "Welcome to France, Colonel Alexander.” 

"Should have seen you were too well-fed to be a prisoner," Alexander said with aplomb, though he wanted to pull out his knife and gut the man. "When did you switch sides, Partridge?" 

"That's not important, Sir." 

"This way," Levert repeated with a nudge of his gun. 

Alexander wondered if he could get the cyanide tablet out without being noticed. This might be the moment to use it. 

The trio walked towards the trees. Two German soldiers suddenly came from behind the trunks and began dragging camouflage off a staff car. Smiling broadly, a Gestapo officer stepped out of the shadows. He must have been waiting for the trap to be sprung. 

Behind them came the sound of running feet, and four men suddenly came running out of the ravine into the moonlight. Levert swung the machine gun towards the newcomers. From their clothing, they were French villagers, but they handled their guns like professional soldiers. 

Alexander hadn't the faintest idea what was going on but he knew that bullets were going to be flying any second now. From the corner of his eye, he saw Partridge running for the boulders. 

Levert opened fire, and one man went down. The others started firing back. Alexander hit the ground and rolled to the left away from Levert. The Germans began to fire as well, and the three strangers took cover behind the huge rocks. 

Alexander rolled as far as he could before getting to his feet and keeping crouched as best he could, lit out for the mouth of the path where it curved downward to the village. 

A bullet plucked his long coat. His hat went flying off, and a pellet went through his dark hair. He had almost reached the rocks when he heard someone yelling in German to stop shooting. 

Dodging behind a rock, he risked a glance back. 

The three men were crumpled heaps of dark cloth and blood in the unflinching moonlight. Followed by a guard, the Gestapo man walked by Levert's prone and groaning body. The other guard was staring around. 

They were hunting him. Where was the traitorous Partridge? He was missing from the picture. He had run this way as well. 

Shouting from the road drew his attention. A truck creaked up filled with policemen. 

If I let them pass, then I can go around them and escape. he thought. He clung to the shadows and prayed he wouldn't be seen. The mission was blown. The best he could do was escape. Levert could identify him, if Levert lived, so the village was out of the question. He had to get back into the mountains. 

The truck stopped in the middle of the clearing and men disembarked. From some rocks, he saw Partridge corne out with his hands up, then put them down as he talked with the officer. They looked around again, Partridge's face a mask of anger. The traitor now could be identified if Alexander could escape. No wonder the other man had been killed. 

Under the cover of the noise, he slid around the corner. The steep incline was covered with pebbles that rolled under his feet, rattling down the hill. 

He struck east, keeping to the shadows and moving as fast as he could. 

Before long he could hear the soldiers' boots behind him, climbing the rocky hills. A startled rabbit caused a machine gun blast, and a reprimand for the soldier. Alexander knew the Gestapo wanted him alive. That made it even more important for him to escape and tell London that the mission was gone, that Partridge and Levert were traitors.

Climbing, rather than following the road down, Alexander got above the soldiers. One foot slipped and a rain of rocks made a clatter that rang through the night. He cursed silently, and pulled himself between two rocks into deep shadow, burying his head in the heavy coat. A soldier came around the corner hunched over suspiciously, his gun held ready. His eyes passed over Alexander without seeing him. He went by. Saying a prayer, Alexander settled into the shadows. It was as good a place to hide as any for the moment. 

He awoke with sunlight beating down on him and a very dry throat. The soldiers had searched all night and finally retreated at dawn. Alexander saw the officer once, his heavy face angry as he gave orders, but the men were tired out. Alexander knew they would be hunting him again as soon as replacements came. It was time for him to move on. 

He stretched his legs and stood up. His joints were stiff and cold and his body ached even more than it had when he first reached the clearing. 

Climbing down silently, he reached the path, and walked onwards, until he found another path leading up into the mountains. He remembered that, on his map, it led through the passes into Italy. Maybe there he could find someone who could help him. 

Five days later he was starving. The small bundle of food he had carried with him through the landing was gone. He hoped that his pursuers had given up. He didn't believe it, but hoped so. 

He staggered along the rocky ravine, not caring if the sound carried. He was so thirsty that he was almost dizzy. 

Overhead he heard an airplane, 

Frantically he dropped among the rocks, playing dead. The small plane roared overhead. When it was gone, he dodged into a cave and crouched down, peering out into the bright light. Something rolled under his foot and he looked down. A gold ring? Bones. Bones and a ring. He looked around frantically, and then gagged. There was a human skeleton. Outside the plane had circled around again. The pilot was flying lower this time. The shadow fell across the mouth of the cave. 

The body looked like it had been there for some months. From the splintered bone visible through the thin pants, the man had broken his leg, probably dodging in the cave. One side of the skull was cracked and darkly-stained. He probably had tripped over the rocks and hit his head in addition to breaking his leg. Maybe he hadn' t realized he was dying. The colonel hoped not. 

Alexander reached for the small water bottle by the skeleton and shook it. It sloshed. Still some water left. Rapidly, he unscrewed the plug and drank a little, wincing at the taste. Stale and metallic. Horrible tasting, but still the nectar of the gods. He blessed the corpse and took another sip, letting it trickle down his throat. 

_What the hell am I going to do now?_ The pilot might or might not have seen him. Maybe they made regular runs through here, which is why the dead man had taken cover. The road seemed endless and he was hungry. 

Food. If the man had water, then he might have food. Alexander knelt down by the corpse, A glint of light caught his eye, and he reached for it. The chain was tangled in the man's tattered scarf. Gently, Alexander detached it and pulled it free, A dog tag? "Luke Pierson, Captain. " 

In one pocket was also a map of the mountains, a French identity card and a piece of newspaper. The date at the top was April 12, 1942, 

“Hm ... Luke Pierson. Captain, what were you doing here?" he said out loud and then jumped as the echoes came back at him, "That company was mostly taken up at Dunkirk. Where were you for a year or two, son?” He looked at the dead man. The work clothing didn't fit right and probably hadn't when he was alive. Too large for his spare frame. 

The French documentation in his hands was for a Mister Philip Bremer of Nice. Alexander studied it carefully. Faked. He could see the signs, Faked very well, but forged. He took up the ration book and thumbed through it. A forgery as well. 

"Where can you get this kind of forgery? A POW camp. You were a POW?" he mused, 

Suddenly he heard the sound of boots outside, coming towards him. 

He dropped the documents into his pocket and moved stealthily forward until he could see the floor of the ravine. 

In the distance. he saw two Italian soldiers laughing with each other. Their rifles were slung casually on their backs. 

Ahead, Italian soldiers. Behind him. Levert and the Germans, or the traitorous Partridge, who was just as bad. Very little water and no food, There was no escape from the airplane. He glanced at the body. "What do I do?" he whispered. 

The corpse of Pierson didn't answer, 

Alexander felt the documents in his pocket. and he looked at the chain stretched from hand to hand. He lifted his hand to his collar and felt the small cyanide pill. That was the final resort and this might be a way out. 

Taking a deep breath, he hung the chain around his neck. Methodically, he began to divest himself of his clothes, With more than a little distaste he pulled off Pierson's shirt and put it on, then took the dead man's coat, restoring the documents to the pockets. He mixed a little of the water with dust to brush down his hair. making himself look more like the dead man's picture. 

The voices were closer. With a small prayer, Alexander moved out of the cave and down towards the soldiers. How to make this look like he was trying to escape but make sure they captured him. 

GERMANY-March 1943 

"The guards picked me up almost right away. I showed them the papers, but they dragged me to the local jail. I told them over and over that I was Pierson and when they searched me. They found the dog tags. Finally, they found where I'd 'escaped' and sent me back there. That took a month. The Italians are not always so swift on these things," Pierson concluded in a hoarse voice. “But no one had any doubt that I was Captain Pierson." 

"Partridge?" Hitchcock said in sheer disbelief his lone rising. "Partridge is a traitor?"

"I tried to get the information back through Pierson's family but I wasn't sure it ever got through. I kept getting letters from his Aunt Nancy telling me about ' the girls'." 

"So why did they keep you alive? I mean, Intelligence kept 'Colonel Alexander'.” Partridge knew his Colonel wasn't you!" Hitchcock argued, confused by the plethora of names. 

"Think of it this way," Pierson said, leaning back on the hardwood floor. "As long as Colonel Alexander is alive, be's a threat to the Germans who'll waste a lot of time trying to neutralize him. He can tie up enemy reserves." 

"Misdirection," Troy concluded. "Even if Partridge did tell the Germans his man wasn't the real Alexander, who's to say anyone would believe him-" 

"When all the rest of the intelligence the Germans are getting says Alexander is very much alive," Pierson interrupted. "I don't know if my people believe I'm alive or not, or even if it matters to them, but the ruse matters'-' 

"So you took the first opportunity to escape again from the camp," Troy concluded.

"Why Norway?" 

"British Intelligence run commandos in and out of there, and parts of Sweden, though it's officially neutral," Pierson said confidently. 

"Now, are you going to tell us who that telegram was to, Colonel?" 

Pierson hesitated. 

"Who was it sent to, Colonel?" Troy pressed, raising his fists. 

"A friend in Norway named Goedhart. He's part of the underground there, I needed to tell him that I was still alive, and that we were headed north. He can get word to my people in London and we can get transport out." 

"If we make it to Norway," Hitchcock said pessimistically. 

"I knew Goedhart before the war. He treated my broken hand. Good doctor. I hope that once we get there, we'll have help getting out of Norway," Pierson said confidently. 

"And us?" Hitchcock asked \ovarily. 

"We travel together." Troy said firmly. 

"All of us," Pierson nodded. "All for one, and one for all. Troy, don't forget your promise.“ 

"My promise?" 

"Make sure that I'm dead if the Germans catch up with us," Pierson said with deadly calm. "I don't want to be interrogated, Don't think I can stand up to it now." 

"Don't worry, Colonel," Troy replied, getting to his feet and dusting the dirt off. "We're all dead if the Germans catch up with us. Now, what are we going to do?" 

Pierson sighed, and his eyes fluttered shut. Then he started to cough, a sound which reverberated through the entire wooden structure. It took a minute for him to catch his breath. He saw their worried faces. "I'm getting worse." 

Hitchcock said concerned, "We should have stopped at a doctor's. Maybe they could give you some medicine." 

"Goedhart is a doctor. We just have to get to Norway." 

"They were checking papers at the railway station," Troy commented. "Do you have a plan to get around that?" 

Pierson nodded. "Yes. Just let me catch my breath." 

"Hitch, let's see if they've left anything here to boil some water, and to get a fire going. It's going to be a raw night and we'll need the help," Troy ordered. 

Pierson smiled wryly. "And if we get caught?" 

"At least we'll be warm. Take a nap, ColoneL We'll move out at sunrise."

AMERICA-March 1943 

The steam engine chugged into Washington’s Union Station with its small tail of passenger and freight cars. The trip had taken two days from Tully's small station to Charleston, West Virginia. There they requisitioned room on one of the transports going to the capital. The small town had been crowded with soldiers and it was only by pulling his considerable rank that Moffitt had gotten them a room at the local hotel. They both agreed it was one of the few reasons to be an officer. 

A day later they crammed themselves into a packed passenger car and rolled many hours across the hills of Virginia, crowned with spring growth and flowering trees, until they reached the outskirts of Washington. The tracks ran through rundown tenements and back alley, here faces stared at them sullenly, and children played on the rooftops, waving at the soldiers. Finally, it drew up behind the imposing white-marble Beaux Arts station and sidled into one of the slots. With a wheeze and a blast of steam, it stopped, the brakes screeching. Men who had been crowded into every possible space stirred and picked up their bags. It was bedlam, but Tully remained relaxed in his seat beside Moffitt whose uniform, rank and metals had gotten them a corner in one car, and more room than expected. After most of the men had disembarked, he and Moffitt picked up their bags and left. They climbed down the stairs from the car and joined the crowds heading for the main hallway. 

"Hot day," Moffitt muttered as they struggled through the massive crowds. 

"Weather's tricky around here," Tully commented. shifting his toothpick. "I came here once years ago with my dad. Mid-November and an ice storm. Two days later it was as hot as today." 

Outside, jeeps and trucks vied for space on the roads that led downtown towards the White House and the Capitol. It was gridlock in the burning sun. 

"Where we going ... Colonel?" Tully asked, looking around. He saw a line of soldiers wailing for buses or the trolley which was clanging up the hill towards them. Wooden temporary buildings lined the wide expanse of the mall all the way down towards the imposing Washington monument in the distance. From the weathering, the buildings had been standing for decades. The streets were crowded with young women, who eyed him boldly while others watched Moffitt like a hawk, something the Englishman was uncomfortably aware of, from his stance. He ignored them as best he could as he turned in a circle trying to spot someone in the traffic. 

“We report to the British Embassy," Moffitt said in a tight tone, and Tully flicked him a glance. Moffitt had grown more tense with every mile closer to the capital. Tully suspected it probably had to do with the telegram that had arrived just as they were leaving Kentucky. Moffit hadn’t shared the contents, just shook his head in disgust, and put the paper away. 

"Am I supposed to be along on this, Sarge?" Tully asked tentatively. 

"Yes. They are expecting us," Moffitt said crisply. "Sometime this week at least.'· 

A jeep honked its horn urgently, and they saw someone waving at them. Before he recognized the face, Tully recognized the red hair. "Partridge? Lieutenant Partridge?" 

"Oh. yes, he’s here," Moffitt said with clinical precision. "He's our ride. That was what the telegram said. That he was here." 

Tully stared at him. Something was wrong. He didn't have time to ask for more information since Moffitt started through the crowd. Tully struggled to follow. By the lime they reached him. Partridge was exchanging comments with a male civilian. Traffic was slow as it went around them. 

Out of the corner of his eye. Tully saw a woman in a drab suit wearing a small felt hat scan them. She was eyeing Moffitt carefully and Tully wondered if he knew he was being marked. She looked like she was sizing him up for dinner. 

"Ready to go, Partridge?" Moffitt said briskly. breaking into Tully's reverie. He slung his bag into the back seal and settled in as Partridge saluted and went around to the front seat. The man stepped back into the crowd. "Who's your friend?" 

"He was upset that I was parked here, Colonel Alexander," Partridge replied in a casual tone. "I told him to get off... sir.”

Tully settled into the other back seat. "Faster we go, faster we get out of everyone's way." 

"Nice to see you again, Private Pettigrew," Partridge said in a less-respectful tone. 

Moffitt raised an eyebrow in reproof. "Get moving, Lieutenant Partridge!" 

"Yes, sir, Colonel Alexander, Sah!" Partridge said loudly. and started the jeep. He edged out into the crowded traffic, the buses, cars, and trams. All fought for space on the wide circle in front of the station. Troops and civilians, many of them women, crowded the sidewalks and sometimes walked into the street. The city was bursting at the seams. 

Tully looked for the beautiful woman but missed her. He wondered if he should mention it to Moffitt but, after consideration, decided not to. He would never see her again, so why stir things up? 

They drove down towards the Washington Monument, passed the White House, and turned onto 16th Street. It was a slow ride in noisy surroundings which gave Tully a chance to enjoy the city. Despite the overcrowding there was the definite feeling of excitement and anticipation among the people, black and white, who walked purposefully along the sidewalks or disappeared into the imposing buildings. Many laughed and joked as they picnicked under flowering magnolias or next to beds of blossoming daffodils. The long snouts of anti¬aircraft guns protruded off the rooftops of buildings to remind them that they were at war, but if it were not for the similarity in everyone's dress, whether or not they were in khaki, you might think that it was just a big city. Tully wondered if he'd have time to enjoy any of the amenities before he and Moffitt were sent off on this mysterious mission. 

He could feel the tension vibrating through Moffitt. What else had the former sergeant not told him about the mission besides Partridge? What more was there to tell? 

They stopped at the iron gates and Partridge showed his pass. Moffitt handed his identification to the guard, who saluted him, glanced over at Tully, then stepped back. Partridge drove past the pillars with the lion-decorated urns up to the red brick building built in the style of an English country home. It looked like something out of Mack's books, except for the thoroughly modern guards on every side, armed with revolvers and grim faces. 

Partridge got out in time to open the door for Moffitt. who returned his salute and walked to the front door. meeting Tully who had gotten out the other side. "I'll arrange for your luggage to be taken upstairs, sir," Partridge called, eyeing the duffel bags. 

"Good. I believe Tully is also quartered here. Make sure his bags reach his room," Moffitt ordered, and turned away without acknowledging Partridge's resentful salute. Tully grinned at him, then followed Moffitt inside. 

Waiting for them was a tall man in an immaculate Royal Air Force uniform, his wings well shined, gold braid glittering on his uniform, and his shoes well-polished. He made Tully feel out of place without even trying. He was talking to a secretary with pale milk cream skin and golden hair. Hearing their footsteps. He turned and saluted. "Flight Lieutenant Archer, sir. I hope you had a good trip, Colonel Alexander." 

"It was long, Lieutenant, very long." 

"I'm afraid that Mister Williams has been awaiting your arrival, Sir," Archer said with the slightest tinge of apology, "In the library, sir." He eyed Tully with askance but didn't ask any of the questions that were clear on his face. 

"I understand, Lieutenant," Moffitt said with a touch of resignation. "Where is it?" 

"Down the corridor to the right. I'll take you there. Arabella, do you have those cables?" 

"Right here, Lieutenant." she replied, handing him several papers. She dimpled as Moffitt included her in the salute, then smiled at Tully. He thought her voice was so crisply edged, it could cut a silk scarf. 

Moffitt nodded and both men, trailed by Tully, walked down the hallway. Underfoot, squares of slate and marble made a chessboard pattern. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, draped in faded blackout curtains tied back by black cording. At the end of the hall was an arched doorway that led to the gardens outside where the ubiquitous dogwood was in bloom, along with several brilliant azaleas. A shadow crossed their path, and Tully noticed a soldier pacing his watch outside. The security was tight here in the Embassy. 

Stopping at a door at the end of the hall. Archer knocked on it, then twisted the knob. With a jerk the door opened. The wood had warped in Washington's persistent humidity. 

"Lieutenant Colonel Alexander, sir," Archer announced and held the door open for them. After they were inside, he placed the cables on the edge of the desk, walked out and shut the door behind him. It took a hard pull to get it tightly closed. 

Behind a large carved wood desk, a small civilian man with greying hair and a nondescript suit was standing, his back half·turned to them, as he read some papers in his hands. The dark wood·paneled room had a white fireplace that dominated one wall. Above it was a gold·framed portrait of an Englishman on horseback. Chinese lamps sat on either end of the mantle and several large overstuffed couches filled the rest of the room. Tully was glad to see the worn spots in the white rug; it made him feel less like he'd been let into an aristocrat's mansion, and should be going in the servants' entrance. 

Moffitt saluted crisply. and Tully followed his lead. The man acknowledged their salutes. "At ease, gentlemen." he said. Another English aristocrat, from the accent. "I'm glad to see you again, Sergeant Moffitt." 

Tully flicked a glance at Moffitt. whose expression hadn't changed. Back to the ranks, eh? Why not 'Colonel Alexander'? 

Moffitt's back stiffened. "I am reporting back from my leave as you ordered, Mister Williams." 

The man shook his head but was still smiling. "I see you've finished your little excursion into Kentucky. Did you enjoy visiting other areas in America?"' 

"I did, sir. It is very different from Washington." 

"'It is indeed," Williams said dryly, "You look relaxed, Sergeant. Ready to go back to work, no doubt?"

"As soon as you want, sir!" Moffitt said strongly. The stranger nodded, his gaze shifting to Tully who looked back at him expressionlessly. Who was this man? Was he an officer? At least this Englishman wasn't as stiff as half of the Brit officers they'd dealt with in North Africa. "This is the man who you insisted on getting?"

"Private Pettigrew and I worked as a team in North Africa, sir-" 

"I've read your files, Sergeant Moffitt. There were two others as well. Pity they're now in a POW camp." 

"Yes, sir," Moffitt agreed with unexpected emphasis. "They were excellent soldiers." Tully hadn't realized how Moffitt felt about the others. Moffitt was not exactly demonstrative. Most of the time he showed about as much emotion as one of those lions on the urns outside. 

Williams studied both men, assessing them from his expression. then he reached around and picked up a small cardboard square. "You will need this tonight, ' Colonel Alexander'." 

Moffitt studied it. "This is an invitation to the Embassy of the Netherlands for a reception, sir.” 

"Very true. It starts in a few hours. It would be a good idea for Colonel Alexander to make an appearance there," Williams ordered. "You notice that invitation is for two." 

"Tully will accompany me, sir," Moffitt said without even glancing back. 

"I assume so, Colonel. Excellent idea," Williams replied with more than a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Watch your back, Colonel." 

"Why?" Tully asked unexpectedly, emboldened by Williams' relaxed attitude. "Who was this Colonel Alexander really?” 

"I've wondered that myself, sir," Moffitt remarked, looking up. 

Williams eyed both men, weighing them. "Sergeant, you were told various things about Alexander when you were in England-" 

"Not quite, sir," Moffitt cut in. "Most of the time I was in hospital until I was sent to Canada. Then here." 

"It's hard to impersonate someone you don't know, Mister Williams," Tully commented sagely, eyeing the stranger. "Like going into a minefield and knowing they're there, but not knowing how to get around them."

"You're going to a Washington social event, which is not unlike a minefield," Williams replied with a laugh. "Colonel Alexander worked all over Europe, but most lately in France. He was to link between the Maquis and Allied Intelligence near Monaco. Unfortunately, that didn't happen." 

"So, he is dead?" Moffitt asked curiously. 

"Yes," Williams agreed with a slight tone of regret. "Being 'Colonel Alexander' is a highrisk mission. That is why I authorized your trip to Kentucky, Sergeant Moffitt, among other reasons. You will need someone to watch your back."

Tully flashed back to Moffitt's words under the tree, 'I couldn't leave it to chance.’ Now he understood better why Moffitt had corne all that way. 

"Then, Colonel Alexander was a spy, sir," Moffitt commented, studying the man in front of him. "Was he a commando?"' 

"One of our best, Sergeant. You were the best candidate for the job. Sergeant Moffitt. I've read the files on your independent missions." 

"I'm afraid I got caught quite often, sir," Moffitt said stiffly, 

"But you escaped alive and accomplished the mission and that is what matters," Williams said with a trace of impatience. “I cannot provide you with the same backup you had over there. but Private Pettigrew will have to do. I recommend you go get dressed for the reception. " 

"Why am I going at all, sir?" 

"To establish that you, or Colonel Alexander, are still alive," Tully said unexpectedly. "Right, Mister Williams?" 

Williams shook his head. "It's more complicated than that, Private, but you are right. Colonel Alexander has to be on file as being in Washington right now." 

"Then we'll be there at...six thirty," Moffitt agreed stowing the invitation in his pocket. "Do you know where we can change and wash up, Sir?" 

"Space is at a premium in 'Washington, gentleman. I believe the Ambassador has made some provision for you upstairs. If you ask Arabella, she'll take you to your rooms. Pick up any information you might overhear at the reception, have a good dinner, though it's likely to be some version of chicken," Williams said ruthlessly, "and be back in several hours." 

"Washington is that dangerous, Sir?" Moffitt asked with deceptive innocence. 

"This is the capital of the free world. and a nest of spies," Williams laughed. "It also has the highest rate of the VD in the entire country. The American Shore Patrol picks up soldiers for fighting every night while roaming the streets. I would rather not see a man of your rank in the local station. Lieutenant Partridge will drive you to the Embassy."

"About Partridge, sir," Moffitt said hesitantly. "I hadn't realized he would be here." 

Williams smiled. "Wherever Colonel Alexander goes, Lieutenant Partridge will follow, Sergeant. I suggest you get used to him," Tully realized the tone of dismissal in Williams' voice. 

"Yes, sir!" 

Both soldiers snapped him salutes and left. Tully thought about that last statement as he followed Moffitt into the musty hallway.

Williams wasn't enamored with Partridge. Was there more of a connection between Partridge and Alexander than had seemed obvious on the raid? There had to be. What was it? Williams was telling them the barest minimum possible. 

Tully also wondered who they were informing that Colonel Alexander had arrived in Washington. The Germans? The Soviets? The Americans? The Italians? Whoever? They were expendable. If Moffitt died, Mister Williams would replace him in a heartbeat. 'Watch his back.' Tully certainly would. and hope he didn't get in the way of any bullets aimed at Moffitt. 

"The reception's three hours from now," Moffitt said unexpectedly, turning to Tully. "Let's get our gear stowed and have a wash." 

Archer was waiting for them in the entrance hall. "I'll show you to your rooms, sir," he said helpfully. He led the way up the circular stairway to the narrow halls on the second level. 

Tully slowly realized that this had all been planned down to the infinite detail and his respect grew for Mister Williams. He wished the man would explain what they were entangled in, but until he did, he and Moffitt would just have to play their parts. 

The trio climbed to the third floor where there was a small room with two narrow beds, a clothes press against one hall, and a basin and pitcher on a small dresser. The square windows were draped in heavy black curtains. 

Tully spotted his bag to one side. "We're gonna need to get our duds pressed, Sarge," 

"Quite right," Moffitt said looking around. 

"I'll send up one of the maids, sir," Archer offered. "The WC's down the hall, Private, and the bath is next to it. Two doors down." Moffitt waited until Archer left before turning to Tully. "Want to take the first shower?" 

"Sure. If you don't mind." 

"Go ahead. I'll unpack 'Colonel Alexander' and see that the maid presses our uniforms." 

GERMANY-March 1943 

Hitchcock admired Pierson's cool nerve. It had been almost a week since Pierson had forged the marks on Troy's papers, including the photograph. The trio, now dressed in civilian clothing, went into the cenler of the small town to a pawnbroker's and sold Pregger's watch and some of his other belongings. They rode the German trains around bombed Berlin, gawking at the damage, and then boarded another crowded train headed for Hamburg. From Hamburg they'd take the boat up to Bergen.

Troy stood at one end of a car, a forbidding expression on his face that prevented anyone from speaking to him. He slouched against the wall, looking dangerously sullen, and people avoided him. 

Hitchcock had decided impulsively to help a pregnant woman who was having a hard time with her luggage and this earned him her gratefulness and a seat next to her. His rudimentary German wasn't necessary since she preferred to chatter to him and all he had to do was nod. He understood about one in four words but the intent was clear. Her husband was going to meet her in Hamburg. 

In the front of the car, he saw Pierson holding onto a strap and swaying as the train rattled on its way northward. The man's face was blotchy and with fever and his congestion, he was forced to breath through his mouth. His cold had developed into something more serious, and Hitchcock prayed that their spy wasn't going to die on the way to Norway. His already spare frame had become painfully thin. 

The woman finally fell silent, her hands crossed in front of her on her ample belly. Out of the corner of his eye. Hitchcock saw she had fallen asleep. 

Glancing around the crowded train, he saw it was filled with standing civilians and seated military men. The men were exchanging what sounded like boasting comments, while the few women in the car looked tired, with the exception of one woman who was obviously the wife or the mistress of the well-fed high-ranking officer next to her. Her stylish coif was topped with a ruby red hat adorned with a long pheasant feather that kept tickling the man behind her, and she wore a red suit with a black velvet collar. In the stifling car, she should have been perspiring but she didn't look it. 

Suddenly she turned her head and caught Hitchcock looking at her, and smiled knowingly. Shrinking back, he stared out the windows at the foliage and dusty roads. He hadn't wanted to catch anyone's attention on the trip. 

Glancing back, he saw she was staring at her gloves, and relaxed a trifle. 

She hadn't really noticed him. Up at the front of the car, he saw the conductor coming through the car asking for tickets. Hitchcock tensed as he pulled out his own. 

Beside him the woman opened her cracked leather purse and pulled out a wad of papers. She sorted them in her lap. then looked upset. The ticket wasn't among them. She reached into her purse for more. 

Hitchcock caught several before they landed on the floor, and earned a grateful smile. 

The conductor had a reluctantly tolerant smile in the face of the torrent of German from the woman, and took the ticket she finally held out. The man shot Hitch a commiserating smile, punched his small cardboard square, and moved on. 

He realized that he had been taken for her husband, and a giggle choked his throat. He took a deep breath, bit his lip, and handed back her papers. After replacing everything into her purse, she dived into one of the small bags at her feet. She came up with a half-loaf of bread and some thick sausage which she offered to him. 

Hitchcock's mouth watered. After months in the prisoners-of-war camp, this was wonderful. He accepted a small piece of both, gratefully, and she beamed at him. She chewed on the rest. 

Glancing up, he saw Pierson staring down the car past him, his face suddenly set and tense. Hitchcock shifted so he could see the reflection of what was happening behind him. 

Troy was waiting patiently as the soldier closest to him protested volubly about his ticket, and the conductor looked bored. The altercation had drawn the attention of the officer and his mistress. The officer's eyes narrowed as the man defied the conductor who looked very fed up, and whose voice was rising. Troy was braced against the back of the car trying to stay out of the fight. 

Then the protester threw up a fist, and the conductor shied back in consternation. The soldiers on either side half-rose. 

Troy stepped forward and grabbed the man's arm, drawing it back behind him, forcing him to bend over or have a broken shoulder. The passengers gave a collective gasp. The officer rose and walked down the crowded car, waving to the other soldiers to take the man from Troy's grip. He studied Troy after the protester had been hauled away, then asked something in German. 

Troy shook his head slowly, spread his hands, making it clear that he didn't understand. Hitchcock sent up a simple prayer. From the set of his shoulders, the officer was suspicious. 

Then wafting perfume, the officer's woman walked up the aisle and put her hand on his arm. She said something in a softly commanding tone that stopped the man's questions. With a tug of her hand, he stepped back, eyeing Troy forbiddingly. 

The woman beside Hitchcock gasped. 

Hitchcock felt himself go cold. What the hell was going on? 

The woman said something to the officer, laying her hand on his sleeve, leaning intimately against him. The man hesitated, then turned to the conductor and barked an order. The conductor nodded and gave a salute, The officer turned on his heel and went back to his seat, escorting the woman. The soldiers pulled their feet out of his way, and most kept their eyes down. She caught Hitchcock's gaze as she passed. and shot him a flicker of a smile. then lifted her chin and continued onward. As soon as they were reseated, she began whispering into the officer's ear. 

Troy glanced at the conductor who was now holding out his hand, and presented his ticket. The man clipped it, and handed it back then went on into the next car. Troy leaned back against the wall, his arms folded, his expression once again forbidding. Most of the people in the car avoided looking his way. Hitchcock glanced at Pierson who was watching carefully. He met Hitchcock's eyes once, warningly, but didn't move from his strap. 

Il took twenty minutes for them to reach the station in Hamburg. The bustling port city had been touched by the Allied night bombing and piles of rubble marked the location of former buildings. Soot-scorched walls showed the traces of the incendiaries. Uniformed men and civilians, some with their belongings piled on carts, trudged up and down the dismal streets. Looking out the window. Hitchcock saw one fountain still spouting water, and some small boys climbing into the stone basin. daring each other, and he smiled reminiscently. He had done that not so very long ago and frightened his governess so much that she'd complained to his parents, and he'd never been taken to that park again. 

With a pang, he wondered what his mother would have thought if she could see him now, Undoubtedly she'd fuss about the length of his hair and the way the huge jacket sat on his shoulders, and how thin he was. but most of all, she'd just be happy he was there and alive. His father still wondered why he had joined up as a private when he could have gone to one of the military academies straight out of prep school, but Hitchcock had known that he wanted to fight, not sit in a classroom. He was lucky that all that illicit driving he'd done at the family estate had paid off and he was sent to North Africa in time to be assigned to the Patrol. It was even more lucky to have been assigned to Troy's detachment, and that everything had worked out so well, up to that last raid. He felt a pang of regret when he thought of Moffitt. Pity the Englishman was dead. He'd been such a good guy. 

The train shuffled to a slow stop and the passengers stirred, picking up cases, baskets, chattering to one another. Out of the corner of his eye, Hitchcock saw Troy immobile against the back. In one hand he still had the small ticket, punched by the conductor. The men around him avoided him as they climbed off the train. 

The pregnant woman touched his arm, and Hitchcock turned to see her pleading eyes. He smiled and nodded, picking up one basket and holding out his hand to her. 

She smiled gratefully, and shuffled after him down the narrow aisle to the door. He descended the stairs, and helped her off the over-high last step. She led him towards the gate until with a cry, she called, "Karl!" 

The soldier waved, his face lightening up, and came through the crowd to embrace her. 

Hitchcock felt himself turn to cold stone as the man turned towards him, his light blue eyes examining him. Dumbly, he held out the basket and Karl took it, making some comment. 

The woman said something in German, obviously commenting on Hitchcock's lack of a common language, and Karl nodded. He held out his unencumbered hand to shake. 

Without any hesitation, Hitchcock shook it, and smiled. There was no malice in the soldier's face, just relief that his wife had arrived safely and in good hands. For a second, Hitchcock was reminded that all Germans weren't like the guards at the camp or Pregger. This could be an American soldier, and Englishman or a Pole; the scene would be the same. 

Karl led his wife, baskets and all, into the departing crowd. Hitchcock felt a brush on his shoulder, and turned to see Pierson heading for the gate furthest from the crowd. Hitchcock followed a few seconds later, loitering casually to avoid the other riders. A man in an SS uniform was collecting for the war, waving a box and asking for money, and Hitchcock, after a startled second, put in fifteen pfennigs. The man moved on with a glazed look in his eyes. and Hitchcock went over to the exit gate where Pierson was loitering.

"Troy?" Hitchcock said in an almost inaudible tone. 

Pierson shook his head, his gaze scanning the emptying platform. 

"Wait outside," he ordered in a mutter. "There's a statue of Bismarck. I'll find Troy." 

Hitchcock nodded reluctantly. and went outside. 

He stopped aghast. The officer hadn't left with his mislress. She was standing by the car, giving him a long deep kiss. He finally got free, climbed into his staff car, followed by several aides and drove away. She waved goodbye. 

Hitchcock turned, and caught Pierson's eyes before the Englishman moved into the crowd. Pierson moved casually to join him. Where was Troy? 

She waved her hand and a car swooped out of the crowd. Without a qualm, Troy stepped forward out of the crowd, and opened the door. clicked his heels and held out his arm in a Nazi salute, 

She stroked the side of his face, and said something in German. He didn't respond. She repeated it in French. His expression didn't change. Finally, with a pout, she got into the car, and he shut the door. Stepping away, he watched the chauffeur drive off, before turning away and seeing them. 

Hitchcock saw an officer move towards Troy, and he caught his breath. 

The man waved to an older man. probably his father from the resemblance, and they embraced. By the time the soldier was free, Troy was far down the block. It had been a coincidence that he had been standing beside the escaped prisoner. 

Over his shoulder. Hitchcock heard coughing and knew Pierson was also on the move. 

Licking his dry lips, he followed. They were heading for the port. 

AMERICA-March 1943 

The unseasonable heat was an uncomfortable blanket of humidity that made Moffitt and Tully perspire. Partridge dropped them off in front of the Embassy of the Netherlands, and then went off to park the car, promising to be back in an hour. 

The crowded streets of the city had emptied slightly as the day workers went to their crowded hotels, boarding houses, or homes. Occasionally, a car puttered by but the omnipresent loudest sound was the ringing of bells on the streetcars. The city was winding down for the night. 

The Embassy building was a dun colored four·story building with rounded arches on the facade, iron·worked balconies, and tall windows. Masses of tulips were blooming in sheltered beds in front of the building. It was set back from the street, and shadowed by a huge magnolia tree. The scent wafted over them. A soldier saluted, then inspected the engraved invitation that Moffitt held out. 

He wondered what Tully, who wore his formal uniform and his most expressionless face, was thinking. Was the contrast as striking as it was to Moffitt? The flowering trees and bushes versus the rolling dunes of sand? Well-fed, prosperous people versus the hungry beggars who had greeted them whenever they came to a North African village? Even in England rationing was starting to strain the people's good will. Moffitt knew there was a certain resentment toward America in his homeland; even if the British needed their help for survival, did the Americans have to take over everything? 

He took back the card, returned the salute. then went inside, Tully on his heels. The route to the reception was clear from the red rope cording that provided a path to the main hall that overlooked a well-tended garden. 

Beside each window in the hall were the omnipresent blackout curtains, a startling contrast against the delicately traced white·and-gold wallpaper. Women sauntered around, flashing expensive jewelry and designer clothing, the war having only slowed the fashion world to a crawl. Many of the outfits were a year or two old, but nothing as utilitarian as what Moffitt had seen on the streets of London where the clothing was restricted to government fashions. There was money to burn in Washington these days. Long fingers with gleaming nails held cocktail glasses full of expensive liquor, waiters circled with full trays offering more, and the room was filled to the brim with Allied officers talking to each other. A few men stood out in their civilian clothes. They were gathered around the buffet which was serving boiled shrimp in cocktail sallce, salted peanuts and small decorated cakes which were vanishing rapidly. Huge displays of cut flowers sat at each end of the reception hall reflecting back in the gold-famed mirrors. Blue and white Delft-ware was displayed in a huge sideboard where guests were abandoning their empty plates at such a rate that the waiters had difficulty keeping up.

Moffitt took a glass of champagne from a tray, and moved gracefully into the crowd nodding at women who eyed him curiously, and men who were assessing his importance on the basis of his ribbons and medals. Most turned back to their conversations after barely a glance but Moffitt noted that some seemed more interested than others. He mentally marked their faces to report back to Williams. 

Finally, he reached the Ambassador and his wife. who stood by the garden door, and saluted them. 

"I wanted to thank you for your invitation, Mister Ambassador," he said smoothly. 

The Ambassador's face showed politeness even if his eyes were blank. He obviously had no idea of who Moffitt was. "You're very welcome ...Colonel?" 

"Alexander, sir, Lieutenant Colonel Peter Alexander. Assigned to the British Embassy," Moffitt introduced himself. Looking at the reflection in the glass doors, he saw that Tully wasn't behind him. Where was he? 

"Ah. yes. I remember now," the Ambassador lied charmingly. "I hope you are enjoying your stay in America. Colonel.”

"Yes, sir, very much, thank you. Thank you again for the invitation." Moffitt stepped back and let the crowd slide between him and the diplomat. He walked into the adjoining room where it was less crowded. feeling the hairs on his neck prickle. He was being watched. He had been noticed as Williams wanted. What now? The quiet man hadn't said what might happen. Where the hell was Tully? 

A young woman, armed with a small plate of cakes and two champagne glasses, was heading for him. Who was she? God, she was gorgeous. She couldn't be coming to speak to him....She stopped in front of him. "Colonel Alexander?" There was something to be said for this rank after all. 

"Yes? Miss ...." Moffitt answered politely, unconsciously straightening his back. 

The woman's golden hair was pinned off her forehead with a silver barrette. Her green dress flaltered her well-rounded figure and slender legs. Moffitt reeled at her smile, and his suspicions came alive. She couldn't really be interested in him! "I'm Mary Kisa. Our hostess said you were all alone out here and suggested that you might like a drink." 

He doubted his hostess even remembered his name, but as Hitch would have said, 'What the hell.' "I'm delighted to meet you, Miss Kisa," Moffitt replied hastily, mentally shaking himself. Part of his mind was noting that his reaction was purely pampered ego. The beautiful woman had selected him out of all the others, most of whom were above his borrowed rank. 

Well, why not? He hadn't had a real date for. ..months. At least since North Africa. Somehow, nurses weren't the same and most of the time he had been too battered in hospital to really appreciate their offers. He took one of the champagne glasses and raised it in salute to the nurses, as he studied Mary. The golden wine bubbled on his tongue, and he absently wondered how they'd gotten it through rationing. 

"Have you been in tonight long, Colonel Alexander?" she asked with a practiced lightness. 

Moffitt debated his answer. Finally he decided on the middle ground. "Oh, I come and go. How about you, Miss Kisa? Are you native to Washington?" 

She trilled. "Is anyone native to this city. Colonel? I come from Chicago." 

"You work around here, then?" he asked. 

"Yes, for one of those dreary offices downtown," she confided. She tipped her glance at another man who walked by, and he nodded in reply, then turned back to talking the very young woman at his side. "Have you ever been to a reception here in Washington?"

"I can't remember," Moffitt said airily. "It’s been a long time, Miss Kisa, since I went to parties at all." 

Laughing, she swept her fingers across the row of ribbons on his chest. ''I'm sure all those medals didn't come from attending parties, Colonel. You must have been involved in so much of the action-" 

He caught her fingers. "I'm sure you're not interested in old war stories. Shall we take a walk?" Moffitt tried to emulate her light tone but failed. Suspicion gently laced his words. What did she want with him? The man had looked familiar. Who was he? 

"Smile!" A broad-faced man wearing a camera took his picture unexpectedly, and Moffitt flinched, his aplomb shaken. Was this another enemy? 

"Your picture will be in the paper!" she said brightly, holding onto his arm. "That's the society photographer. It wiIl be all over the Times-Herald!" 

Moffitt felt uneasy about his picture appearing at all. He wasn't sure Williams would have wished it, either. "I wasn't expecting this," he said uneasily. "Are you sure it will appear?" 

Her green eyes sparkled. "Of course, Colonel, unless one of the Very Important People come here, and they use their pictures instead. I know I can get you a copy of the photograph if you like. Even if it doesn't appear-" 

"Thank you, Miss Kisa. I would appreciate that." 

"Where shall I send it?" 

He looked down at her beautiful face and was distracted for a second. "Send... ah, oh. yes, the British Embassy. I'm staying at the Embassy." 

"Well. I was about to leave for home. Have you done your duty here, Colonel? Could I ask for an escort?" Her green eyes seduced him. It had to be a trap of some kind. A very sweet one. 

"I would be honored, Miss Kisa." He looked around for Tully. The Kentuckian had disappeared. 

"Shall I meet you at the front door, Colonel? I need to get my coat," she asked, drawing away.

He nodded. “I shall meet you there after I make my farewells to the Ambassador." 

She smiled at him, showing perfect teeth. and slid away into the crowd. 

He looked around frantically. Where the hell was Tully? He couldn't see anything in the mass of khaki and dark suits. Finally, he said his farewells to his distracted hostess and went outside to meet Miss Kisa. She was waiting for him. a camel-hair coat thrown over her green silk dress. Her green hat had a long black feather that brushed his cheek as she turned her head. The skies were darkening with a mass of huge thunderclouds moving in fast from the east. He could smell rain. There was a loud roll of thunder overhead, and both flinched. 

Moffitt shook his head, stepping back. "We'd better get some shelter. Miss Kisa.”

"No, come with me. I know a place where we can talk," she said taking his hand. Her eyes promised him more than she said. Moffitt felt his suspicions revive as he followed her. This was all so sudden. 

They walked up the street, and down a cross-street, passing hurried people who were outrunning the storm. They barely made it inside the small townhouse before the skies opened, and a sheet of rain crashed down.

It was a discreet hotel, he saw from the woman sitting behind a counter at the entrance. Without more than a glance, the concierge handed the girl a small key, and went back to her book. 

Mary smiled mischievously. and took his hand. "Let's get warm and dry, Colonel." 

Moffitt followed her dumbly. It had to be too good to be true. A single flickering light bulb, permitted under rationing, made the corridor look almost menacing. Mary seemed very familiar with the place as she led him into what had probably been the living room when this was a private home. Now it was simply another room furnished with a large sofa facing the fireplace, several armchairs and two end-tables. An unlit lamp sat on one table. Outside, water sluiced down the windows, making it appear as if they were in an aquarium. 

Mary doffed the coat, laid it on one of the end tables. and knelt down in front of the fireplace and tried lighting the wood with her lighter. Her breasts strained at the tight bodice. and Moffitt fell an urge he had to fight. He wasn't going to succumb to this honey trap unless he knew more about this woman. That much of his training he retained, holding onto it with white-tipped fingernails. 

"Can you light it?" she asked looking up. "I'm not having much luck." 

Moffitt knelt beside her, and tried with his lighter. The newspaper, the Times-Herald no less, caught instantly, and flames crackled up around the wood. She was irresistibly close now, gazing into his eyes. He leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. feeling her lean into him, her arms coming up around his shoulders. Her full breasts pressed against him, and he dropped the lighter to put one hand into her hair, brushing off her hat. Her perfume was suffocatingly pervasive. 

Dimly, he realized that this was going farther than he should let it, and. though he wanted it to go on and on, he tried to pull himself free. His hand tangled in her hair tightened harder than he planned, and she gasped in pain, drawing back. "Colonel?" 

The rank killed his mood like an ice cold blast of water. He stiffened, leaning back, and saw something out of the corner of his eye. Swiveling around, he pushed her out of the way of the attacker. 

He was almost too late. The man who she had nodded to at the Embassy hit him with a crushing blow that knocked him against the ornate fireplace grate, knocking the fire irons down on the wooden floor. Moffitt's head swam at the impact. He let go of Mary and held up his hand to protect himself. 

The man picked up a tong and hit out again, landing a sold blow on Moffitt's right shoulder. It went numb from pain. 

Lunging desperately at him, Moffitt ducked under the return swing and hit the man, knocking both of them into one of the armchairs. It skidded across the floor and landed against the wall with the sound of a bomb exploding, 

Thunder crashed loudly outside as the men fought. Moffitt was spurred by desperation. Whoever his attacker was, he was stronger than the Englishman. whose head was pounding like a set of drums and whose arm was numb. But Moffitt's advantage was his commando training and he took full advantage of every dirty trick he knew. 

It apparently worked when, after a kick in the mid-region, the man let go of him and rolled into a ball, gasping in pain. 

Panting, Moffitt sat upright, wiped blood off his nose, and looked around. 

Mary stood by the door watching him calmly. In her right hand was a small gun, the size of a derringer. Moffitt wasn't surprised as she aimed it at him. "Why?" he finally asked. "Who are you?" 

The door slammed open, and a very wet Tully barreled through, startling the woman. Her gun went off and the bullet tore into the plaster by Moffitt's head. Tully hit out and she shrieked. She kicked out with her high-heeled shoes and caught him on the side of his knee. He yelled in pain, and let go. She fled out the doorway. 

The man at Moffitt's feet rolled over, and hit him in the kidney. Moffitt collapsed into a heap, his breath ragged with pain. Scrambling to his feet, the man straight-armed Tully, knocking the soldier over an armchair to land heavily on the carpet. They could hear his running footsteps outside as he fled. 

Moffitt was curled in a fetal position, gasping in pain. 

"Sarge?" Tully asked anxiously. "Are you okay?" 

"My head," Moffitt finally whispered. The pains in his side and shoulders were subsiding but his headache was blinding. 

"Relax, Sarge. I've got you covered," Tully said calmly. "I'll get some help." 

Blackness licked up each side of Moffitt's vision, and he collapsed into it.

***

Tully looked down at the unconscious man and wondered what the hell he was going to do now. Call the Embassy and get some help? Call the cops? Behind him, he heard someone gasp, then shriek loudly. 

“Damn it!" Suddenly he realized that it looked like he'd attacked Moffitt rather than saved him. He turned on his heel and saw the woman from the front desk. “Shut up, damnit!"

“Jesus!" came a familiar, unexpected voice said behind the concierge. The newcomer spun her around and shoved her down the hall. "Get out! Private Pettigrew?” 

“Lieutenant Partridge?" Tully said in disbelief. He saw the officer was mostly dry. He must have been in the Embassy car. "What are you doing here, sir?” 

"I saw you running down the street, and thought I could help," Partridge said succinctly.

"Did you see where that girl went?" Tully demanded, 

"Girl?" Partridge looked puzzled. "What girl? I didn't pass anyone," 

He had to be blind to have missed her, Tully thought. Something tickled his memory but he couldn't pull it up. He'd seen the blonde before. "The one who put a hole in that wall! Never mind. Help me with him." 

"Are you going to call the policeT' Partridge asked. 

"I was just going to call the Embassy .... " Tully saw a flash on Partridge's face and, in an instant, decided that he wasn't going to leave Moffitt to the man's tender mercies. He didn't trust Partridge. He stashed that train of thought for later examination. "You've got the car?" 

"Out front," Partridge supplied. "You were going to call-" 

"Let's just take him back. Come on, help him up." 

"What about the police?" 

"Let the Embassy take care of it," Tully snarled. 

"They'll want a full report as soon as they can get it." Partridge helped Tully lift the unconscious man. "It's on your head, Private. I thought you were imported to keep an eye on him! God, he's a weight, isn't he?" 

Tully looked out the window at the pouring rain. "No one wiII see us if we move now." He resented but agreed with Partridge's comment. He had been asked to watch Moffitt's back and failed. That a very beautiful woman was involved, was now unimportant. 

"We'll all be soaked!" 

"Move it!" Tully heard overtones of Troy's voice in his own, and almost laughed. 

Twenty minutes later they drove through the gates, passed the guards, and around the back of the British Embassy, far from prying eyes. Partridge parked under the brick roof of the open garage, and got out. "I'll get some help." He knocked imperiously on the back door, then waited. Tully opened the rear doors of the sedan, and checked on Moffitt. He was still unconscious. Tully was certain he'd wake up with a bad headache and numerous bruises. After a few seconds, Partridge smashed his fist on the door several times. Finally, it opened. 

Lieutenant Archer, his uniform impeccable despite the late hour, glared at him. The light of the kitchen spilled onto the gravel in contradiction of the blackout regulations. Behind him, Tully saw a kitchen table with a small pile of telegrams on it. He must been delivering them from the communications room when he heard the thumping. "What is it, Lieutenant Partridge?" 

Partridge waved behind him. "I've brought home Colonel Alexander, sir! He's in the car. " 

"What the-" Archer said, aghast, and came outside. He looked horrified. "What happened to him? Is he still alive?" 

"Yeah, but you'd better dig out a doctor," Tully said. "He got whacked on the head and shoulder." 

Archer looked up at the rain still pouring down. The water spotted his uniform and he stepped back under the roof. "He can't stay there. Bring him inside, and I'll call the doctor immediately." 

"You take his other arm, Partridge-Partridge?" Tully looked around. The other man had vanished inside. "Where the hell did he go?" 

"Blast it!" Archer said explosively. "I'II get one of the guards, Private Pettigrew. Wait here." 

"I'm here," Partridge called. He stood in the lighted square of the doorway. "I was getting some water but couldn't find a glass."

Tully wondered what the man had been doing inside. He looked like he'd had a shock. 

Archer looked irritated. "I will call the doctor. Take him up to his room." He picked up the telegrams and disappeared upstairs. 

"Yes, sir," Tully said, and turned back to Moffitt. 

It took them ten minutes to get Moffitt to the narrow room and lay him on the bed. Tully pulled off his shoes and loosened his tie, then sat down. Partridge hovered in the doorway, plainly worried about something. Tully doubted it was Moffitt. 

"When do you think he'll come to?” Partridge finally asked. 

"Doc’ll be able to tell us," Tully replied. He loosened his tie and unfastened his shirt. "You got another appointment!' 

Partridge nodded. "I was on my way out. I'll tell Lieutenant Archer that he's here, shall I?" 

"Yeah, thal'll be good. Thanks for the help, Lieutenant," Tully said. "It would have been messy getting back without you."

Partridge's smile was slightly twisted as if in mockery. "You're welcome. I hope the 'Colonel' recovers." He disappeared into the hallway. 

Ten minutes later, Archer arrived with a doctor whose hat was still dripping water. He glared at Tully. "You're wanted downstairs, Private." 

Tully thought he knew by whom. "I’ll wait until I get the deal, Lieutenant." 

Archer's face went red. "That's an order." 

''I'm supposed to keep an eye on him," Tully said flatly. "I don't know this doctor from... Adam's off ox, and I'm staying here." 

The doctor struggled to keep his expression neutral but Tully thought he was trying not to laugh. "You might start by telling me exactly what happened," he asked, setting down a leather bag with gleaming handles. "Lieutenant, I'll send the private down in a little bit. I may need his help here." 

Archer looked like he'd bitten a persimmon. "Very well, Doctor Bigginson. Where is Lieutenant Partridge, Private?" 

Tully shrugged. "He took off, Lieutenant. Said he had an appointment." 

The officer frowned. "An appointment? Probably in the stews!" 

"Don't like him, eh? Moving in on your girl Arabella?" 

Archer looked down his patrician nose. "Mister Williams will see you in the library when you are finished here, Private!" 

Tully saluted. "Yes, sir!" Bigginson choked. This time he didn't even attempt to hide his amusement as Asher turned on his heel and left. 

An hour later, the door opened and Tully entered the wood-paneled library. He had brushed his hair and washed his face so he looked more presentable, but the uniform was still marked where her heel had caught his knee. He saluted and stood at attention, his gaze fastened on the space above Williams' head. 

Williams stared at him coldly. "I believe you were supposed to protect him. Private," 

"Yes, sir." 

"So what happened?" 

“I noticed Sergeant Moffitt being singled out.... " 

 

 

Tully felt out of place. He didn't let his discomfort show as he followed Moffitt's well-tailored back into the Embassy, but the predominance of high·ranking men and sophisticated men rather intimidated the former moonshine runner from Kentucky. He glanced at a waiter who was holding out a tray of chicken salad-topped canapes. After a fraction of a second, he took one, and a napkin. Another waiter held out a tray of filled champagne flutes. Tully accepted a glass, and turned to see another crowd of people come in. A mass of khaki and silk flowed between him and Moffitt but in the reflection of a glass door, he saw Moffitt talking to the Ambassador. 

Another waiter thrust a tray at Tully, this time with boiled shrimp on toasted bread, and Tully's opinion of the party started to rise. This was the high life. 

Glancing at the windows again, he saw that Moffitt had disappeared. Pushing aside the waiter, Tully headed into the next room. He came to an abrupt stop when he saw Moffitt talking to a beautiful blond. 

_I'm not surprise. Officers get them every time_ , Tully thought in amusement. _Of course. Hitch never had any problems...._ He turned away and inspected the crowd wondering why Williams had been so insistent that he and Moffitt attend this party. How many people here were Axis sympathizers? 

Bits of conversations swirled past him. 

"Roosevelt said .... " 

"I just heard that the Navy sank. ... " 

"I wonder who let him in?'" someone said in a pettish tone. 

Tully looked around but couldn't see the speaker. Was that aimed at him? 

Moffitt's companion drew her finger across the decorations on his chest, and he caught her hand, smiling slightly. Tully wondered if he fell as stunned as he looked. He looked like a suspicious-but-hooked trout. 

Tully wished him much luck.

Then he thought twice. What was he going to do if Moffitt decided to take the beautiful woman up on what she was offering? Moffitt would hardly want to have an audience, and Tully didn't blame him! 

A photographer emerged from the crowd and took their picture, Moffitt looking totally shocked, and the woman smiling mischievously. Unnerved, Moffitt raised his hand, but the photographer vanished into the crowd before he could do anything. Then she caught his attention again, and he smiled. 

Moffitt looked around but missed Tully's wave. With a frown, the private started to ford the crowd to reach his partner. A crowd of newcomers blocked his path. By the time he reached where they had stood, Moffitt and the woman separated. Tully cursed, drawing a reproving glance from a passing major. and headed for the front door. He saw blond hair and a daring hat with a feather. Beside the woman was a tall, dark-haired man in uniform. Ah, hah. 

Reaching the street, he looked around for Partridge. Nothing. No Embassy car. Checking his watch, he realized they'd left the party early, and the lieutenant wouldn't be returning for a while. 

Trailing the pair at a discreet distance, Tully heard the roll of thunder and looked around in disgust as big drops of rain started to fall. He hunched over and ran for the townhouse where Moffitt was. 

Before he reached it, he stopped abruptly in front of the bay window. That was Moffitt, all right, with his arms full of the girl. This would be a bad time to go into that room! But he could wait-what the hell? A huge man moved forward, his hands outstretched, and Moffitt flung the woman to one side. protecting her. That was enough for Tully. He rammed the front door which didn't open, then tried again, this time pulling it. The concierge stared at him in shock, then protested as he ignored her and tore down the hall. 

By the time he broke in, the thug had been taken care of, but the woman had a gun trained on Moffitt. 

"I was a few minutes late because of the rain, sir." 

By the time he finished, Williams was leaning back in his chair, his glare subsiding into a thoughtful expression. "She was a very beautiful woman, Private?" 

"Yes. sir! Very beautifuL" 

"You could identify her again?" 

"Yes, sir, and the man as well." Tully frowned as he remembered something obscure.

"What is it?” 

"Sir, I believe I have seen him before. I'm just not sure where." 

“Here in Washington?"" 

"Yes, sir.” 

"You haven't been in Washington very long. Private. You can't remember where vou saw this man?" 

“Yes, sir. No, Sir. It will come to me, I’m sure, sir."

Williams settled back in his chair. "Now, I can understand your reluctance to follow too closely. It was unfortunate but how would we have known? How is Sergeant Moffitt?" 

""Doc's looked him over. He's asleep now," Tully said. 

"At ease, Private," Williams ordered unexpectedly, "Please sit down. You stayed with him through the examination?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"I gave an order to have you come here as soon as you arrived." 

Tully's eyes met Williams' unflinchingly, ""You also assigned me to watch his back. I was pretty sure you didn't want him left alone so I brought him here for help. Your man Archer was real good." 

Williams smiled. "You're very protective." 

Tully shrugged. "Sarge saved my life in North Africa enough times. He needs someone at his back." 

"And you did a stunning job tonight," Williams said acidly. Tully winced. Williams looked like he regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. "Excuse me, Private. that was uncalled for. It looks like he will be in bed for several days. I suspect you can find other things to do?" 

Unexpectedly, Tully grinned. “Yep. I can go sight-seeing. When will we be leavin', sir?"' 

Williams' eyebrow went up. "Leaving?" 

"Sergeant Moffitt said there was a mission and he was putting together a team. He was pretty sure that we'd be going back to the war, sir," Tully replied, his gaze steady on Williams. 

The man smiled. "That's true. It may be a little more complex than you think-" 

"Sir, what I think is that this is a rare nest of a mess and if you'd told us a little more, then maybe Sarge wouldn't be lying upstairs like a bruised banana," Tully interrupted acidly, then stopped. His face showed that he thought he'd gone too far. 

Williams dropped his gaze to the desk, littered with secret-marked telegrams. "You have a good point.” 

"Right now he's this stupid colonel without a family," Tully said in a disgusted tone. "I know that it's a breach of somethin', but let him tell his mother that he's alive, or his dad." 

"You think that would make a difference in his actions?" Williams asked with an upraised eyebrow. Behind him lightning flashed across the sky. the brightness penetrating through the drawn blackout curtains. 

“He'll do whatever you order, just like me, but it'll help his peace of mind a lot," Tully retorted. He had a flash of blinding insight. "Besides, don't they know? Isn't that why he was shuffled off to Washington?" 

"No, Private, they do not know, and we did not 'shuffle him off’ to America!" 

"Not the way I heard it. sir," Tully said flatly. 

A small smile crept over Williams' lips. “I hope that someday I have a friend like you. I suggest you get some rest. Considering his injuries, I believe you and the Colonel will be here in Washington longer than you might have expected. You might even be able to take in the sights as you wanted." 

“Yes, sir." Tully rose and saluted. 

Williams sketched a salute back. "Dismissed." 

NORWAY-March 1943 

Dietrich's lips were tightly compressed as he rocked back and forth in the back seat of his staff car. He had spent the last four days in the northernmost regions of Norway checking on the wrecking of several trainloads of goods for the Reich. The Norwegians and the commandos attacking the railroads were becoming a major problem and something that Stahl was using against him. The Gestapo man had informed Dietrich's superiors about the capture of the commandos and that funeral. The praise had fallen on Stahl and suspicion on Dietrich for being less than enthusiastic in his duties. He couldn't blame them for that; he was unenthusiastic about executing innocent villagers. They were of more use to Germany alive. 

The car drove down the steep hills into the city and the small farmsteads which gave way to the more crowded streets. _I want to be back where the enemy is in front of me,_ he thought yearningly. _Not at my back. At least the winter is over. The air is warmer, the crops are being sown, there will more food for the people and maybe, just maybe, I can gel a transfer to… to anywhere. If I don’t a transfer soon, my command will be folded under Stahl, and I won’t serve under him, I don't know what to do…_

Passing City Hall, he saw stumps where most of the trees had been cut down for fuel during the cold winter. One survivor waved its green leaves in the thin air looking like it was flying a flag of freedom and defiance. 

Flags. Stahl had used the British flag as one curtain for his window, and the Norwegian one for the other. Dietrich hadn't the heart to tell him he looked like an advertisement for the Allies. In a burst of spite, Stahl had arrested the pastor but Dietrich had gone over Stahl's head to his superiors, who knew the dangers of angering the Lutheran Church, and the man was freed. 

The grey skies and chilly temperatures didn't help his temperament either. _I want to be warm again._ He would ask, beg Rommel to get him an assignment in Italy or in the south of France, or anywhere there might be a need. 

The car stopped in front of headquarters, and he stepped outside. The guards at the door saluted, and he returned it as he brushed by. 

Entering his office, he was startled to see a glass holding flowers on his desk. The snowdrops and one yellow daffodil made a gay display against the dark wood, piles of paper and the cream file folders. 

"At least they aren't carnations," he murmured, hanging his hat on the rack. and slipping out of his tunic. He noted ruefully that the collar was fraying. Time to get a new one if he could requisition it. 

There was a tap on the door. then Lieutenant Lipken opened the door. "Hauptmann Dietrich?" 

"Ja? Come in." 

Lipken saluted and held out a folder. "These are the reports you asked me to prepare before you left, Herr Hauptmann." 

Dietrich glanced at it with distaste, but accepted the file. "This is the list of all the commandos and where they were discovered?" 

"Ja, Herr Hauptmann.,. 

"Are any of them still alive?" Dietrich asked, almost to himself. 

"Nein," Lipken answered baldly. 

Looking up, Dietrich saw a hard glint in Lipken's eyes and knew something was afoot. The Lieutenant's voice was overly-expressionless. Lipken was too shallow to be subtle, and was showing signs of having another master. Stahl? Having his second-in-command spying on him for the Gestapo would be difficult to live with. "You don't approve of my interest in the commandos. Lieutenant?" 

"I wonder why you are still interested. Herr Hauptmann," Lipken said carefully. "They are all dead now."

Dietrich sat down, his mind working furiously. How should he handle Lipken until he could get him reassigned... hopefully to the Russian Front! "The commandos were soldiers, Lieutenant, and as long as they wore a uniform, they should have been treated as prisoners-of-war," he replied carefully. "Imagine if the English or the Americans treated our commandos the same way. 

"They could not," Lipken retorted. "They dare not. They are not strong enough for that!" 

"If you believe that. Lieutenant, I will insure that your next posting will have you facing them. Never underestimate our foes, Lieutenant! The Allied commandos are as well-trained and 'strong' as any of ours. I knew them. I faced them," Dietrich said sharply, staring icily at the young man. Probably Lipken had never been in combat. According to his record. his first assignment was in Paris, then he'd been suddenly transferred here. Probably got caught in a bordello with a superior's whore but had too much family pull to be sentenced to the Russian front. 

Someone tapped on the door. "Come in!" Dietrich snapped. "Open it, Lipken!" The lieutenant obeyed. 

Sigrid held a tray with a coffee pot, a small plate with what looked like pancakes, and a cup and saucer. She glanced doubtfully at Lipken, then at Dietrich, who looked surprised. Why was his maid bringing him coffee and cakes? His gaze fell on the flowers. Why the change of heart? "Come in, Fraulein Sigrid. ThaI's the coffee I asked for?' he covered charmingly, since the woman looked like she was going to retreat with her tray. 

The woman nodded and stepped inside. Dietrich brushed aside the papers on his desk to clear a space, and watched as she placed the tray carefully. 

Glancing at his sullen aide, Dietrich said, "That is all, Lieutenant?" 

"Ja, Herr Hauptmann. I will have the daily report to you in an hour. It is being typed at the moment." 

"It will cover all the days I've been away?" "Ja, Herr Hauptmann!" 

"Excellent," Dietrich said briskly. He put his hand gently on Sigrid's arm as she started to move away. "Stay a moment, Fraulein. That will be all. Lieutenant.""

Lipken saluted, then went out. closing the door a little more emphatically than necessarily. The glass in the windows rattled. Dietrich smiled and let go of her arm. "Do I have you to thank for the flowers, Frau Sigrid?" She nodded, twisting her hands in her apron.

"They are from the church garden, Herr Hauptmann." 

"Why?" 

Sigrid blushed. Dietrich was suddenly struck by her fragile beauty. Most of the time she kept her head down, and flinched when he or Stahl walked by but when she looked up, her hazel eyes were very fine and her skin like the milk-no, cream! -in the pot on the tray. No wonder Stahl was interested in her. He dismissed that thought. "The pastor asked that I bring them, Herr Hauptmann, when I saw him on Sunday." 

"Why give me flowers?" Dietrich asked, picking up the coffee pot and pouring himself a cup. Il smelled like real coffee beans. How had she gotten it? If the liquid was poisoned, he'd die happy. 

"You buried those men with honor, Herr Dietrich." 

"They are buried somewhere that I don't know," Dietrich snapped, feeling himself tense. "I don't need to know. I have the list of people who were at the funeral but their farms seem to be abandoned. I regret that some of the houses were burned. Major Stahl is not a subtle man when he is frustrated." 

"Nein, Herr Hauptmann. The people appreciate what you tried to do for them," Sigrid replied, picking up the tray. "Therefore they have sent you flowers." 

Dietrich's lips twitched into a reluctant smile. Not only was she attractive, but she was quicker than he had thought. Why hadn't he noticed this before? Stahl had. 

StahL His grin faded as he pictured the anger that Stahl was probably feeling. Frustration made the Gestapo man even more unruly than normal. The native populace would pay for making a fool of Stahl one way or another. 

"Has Major Stahl been here since I left?" Dietrich asked abruptly. 

She looked startled. "Lieutenant Lipken could tell you-" 

"I'm asking you," he said abruptly. "Have you seen the Major here in the last four days?" 

"Ja, Herr Hauptmann. Three of the four days," Sigrid answered reluctantly. “He was in your office, looking through your papers. Herr Lieutenant was with him." 

Dietrich's skin darkened with rage. Lipken was going through his papers? That certainly cemented Lipken's allegiances. "Was he looking for something in particular, Fraulein?" 

She cast down her gaze. "I don 't know, sir." 

"How did you know he was here?" 

"He ordered coffee and food, Herr Hauptmann," she said in a barely audible voice. 

He studied her, then reached out and tipped up her chin. "Did he bother you, Fraulein Sigrid?" Dietrich asked softly. "Try to steal a kiss? Or more?" 

Her eyes filled with tears. "He...! moved very .... He .... " 

"Did he lay a hand on you?" Dietrich inquired, not letting go of her chin. 

She shook her head negatively. "I moved away fast, Herr Hauptmann. He threatened...." 

Dietrich stepped back. "I will see if I can prevent him from trying again, Fraulein Sigrid," he said more formally. 

Her smile held disbelief. He felt a touch of anger. Did she think he didn't have any power? "Ja, Herr Hauptmann." 

"Now I think I will try those cakes," Dietrich ordered, settling into his chair. He picked up the coffee cup and smelled the coffee. The real stuff. Life was wonderful. "Where did you get this, Frau Sigrid?" 

She hesitated, then smiled. "From a shopkeeper. Herr Hauptmann. He said you deserved it." 

"I'm surprised that Stahl didn't appropriate it for himself," Dietrich said dryly. "Fraulein Sigrid, please thank your friend for me." 

"Ja, Herr Hauptmann." She took the plate of cakes off the tray, retained the cream and sugar, and. holding the tray in both hands, went to the door. He noticed that she was having a hard time with the knob and walked over to open the door, 

Lipken and a secretary were standing in the outer office, his hands full of paper, her head down over her typewriter. Dietrich wondered if Lipken had been eavesdropping, and threatened the woman, Definitely it was time to do something about Lipken. 

In that case, perhaps Dietrich should make his intentions clear about Sigrid so it could be passed on to Stahl. He leaned over the tray and kissed her gently on the lips, startling the woman so much that if Dietrich's hands hadn't been under the tray. she would have dropped it. Her lips were dry and chapped from the cold. He stepped back, oddly disappointed. No response, "My dinner in four hours?" 

She nodded and fled. 

Meeting Lipken's eyes, Dietrich stared at him until the man's gaze was on his papers. Finally, he asked, "Are those my reports?" 

"Ja, Herr Hauptmann." 

"Bring them inside." He wasn't sure that his action wouldn't make things more dangerous for her. Stahl might try to hurt the woman to get to Dietrich. However, he might be able to give her some protection from Lipken. It was a tradeoff. 

As the door closed behind Lipken, Dietrich was struck with the fact that he might have put Sigrid into worse danger than Stahl. How would the Norwegians feel about her 'collaboration', even if it wasn't true? The secretary was a civilian who would go back to her family every night. 

He sighed as he ran his hand through his hair. Even trying to help could hurt people. He hated dealing with civilians. Norway was another drain on the Reich. He tried to shake a feeling of doom as he sat down at his desk and flicked open the file on the commandos, Where had they planned on attacking? He unrolled a map and began to plot where the commandos had been caught and where they had most likely been put ashore. 

If it even mattered at this point.


	4. Trondheim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long road to Norway comes to an end.

AMERICA-March 1943 

Tully shivered as he entered the British Embassy. The weather had changed from hot humidity to a raw grey spring day, and even the magnolia blossoms looked like they were shivering. The buds on the rhododendrons were tightly wrapped and might be covered with ice by midnight if the temperature continued to drop. When he'd left that morning to take in a museum, the weather had been warm. Now, in early afternoon, the clouds were gathering. He had no doubt that the nightly thunderstorm would be sweeping in an hour from now. 

In the five days since the attack. Tully had wandered around the city while Moffitt had been confined to the Embassy grounds. He hadn't taken this restraint very well especially two days ago when the doctors pronounced him well enough to get out of bed. 

Tully had taken full advantage of the liberty offered and seen all the sights. He visited the Washington Monument. the Natural History Museum. sat on the steps of the newly ¬constructed Jefferson Memorial. He'd listened to the free concerts, hit all the canteens, and generally had a good time. On one wandering trip. he'd seen the President and Mrs. Roosevelt driving by. The President had looked old and tired. 

He'd even had the surreal experience of helping Lieutenant Archer choose an engagement ring for Arabella. The stiff-necked Englishman was a poor bargainer. and Tully's experience in North African bazaars came in handy. Finally, Tully understood why his unwelcome comment the night of Moffitt's attack had so irritated the officer. Partridge probably had been trying to cut in on courtship. By the end that day, Archer unbent enough to thank him before going to find his soon-to-be fiancee. 

Tully hadn't seen Partridge since the rescue· and assumed that the red-light district had consumed the officer. He didn't regret the loss. He avoided telling the confined Moffitt how much he had enjoyed himself. The sergeant might have tried to wring his neck, and reinjured his shoulder in the attempt. 

Now he was startled to find Moffitt standing by the door to the library, one hand on the brass doorknob, arguing with Lieutenant Archer. At his entrance, Moffitt turned and glared at Tully. "He's back now. We go inside." 

Tully realized that the men had been waiting for his arrival, and wondered what was going on now. He fell in behind the frustrated Moffitt as Archer knocked on the door, then let them into the room. 

Did Williams ever move from that chair? At least he wore a different suit and a new blue tie, but the stance was the same, seated behind the desk, going through papers. 

Archer laid down the new cable, saluted, and left with a prissy expression on his face. 

Williams waited 'til the door was shut, then glanced at Moffitt. "I think. he doesn't approve of you, Sergeant. You've been giving Doctor Bigginson trouble." 

"No, sir," Moffitt said neutrally. 

"How's your head?" Williams asked, leaning back, 

Moffitt's jaw set. "Fine, sir." 

Williams eyed him suspiciously. "Really?" 

"Yes, sir." After a second, Moffitt continued, "The doctors say it was a temporary concussion brought on by the fight, sir." 

"They also say your shoulder wound is in the same arm as the one you took in North Africa," Williams replied, tapping on the brown file. "Are you really that accident-prone, Sergeant?" 

"No, sir," Moffitt admitted reluctantly. "But I could also fall on the waxed marble outside and break a leg, sir. This is a dangerous place." 

Williams chuckled, and Tully grinned for a second. The slick Embassy tiles had caused a number of accidents. 

"Then I'll accept that," Williams conceded, "and let it go for now." 

“Sir, I would like permission to leave the Embassy," Moffitt said in frustration. 

The man studied them, then his lips quirked up. "Relax. Sergeant Moffitt, I'm not going to keep you here. I’m sending you both on that mission." 

"Sir?" Moffitt sound eager. The muscles in the back of his neck relaxed. 

"Yes." The man glanced at Tully, then back at Moffitt as if he was making up his mind, then deciding to go ahead. "I'm sending you to Norway to retrieve an agent who has recently escaped from the Germans." 

"Norway?" Tully said involuntarily. Where the hell was Norway? 

“Norway, Private. I hope you like snow," Williams replied, with a touch of amusement.

"Norway is under occupation by the Germans, sir," Moffitt commented, his gaze pinned on Williams. 

"That is very true, but there are few places in Europe that aren't occupied. One of the reasons you are included in this mission is because you speak German with a good enough accent to pass for a native," Williams said. "Your work in North Africa says that you are flexible in your methods, and can handle what is thrown at you. That is important." 

"Can you fill us in a little more on this mission, sir?" Moffitt asked curiously. "Who is this man?" 

"Yes, it's time for you to be given more of the picture." Williams shot a look at Tully who smothered a smile." You are going to pick up a man named .... " Williams picked up a cable, "Luke Pierson." 

"Not his real name," Tully commented unexpectedly. "Right, 'Mister Williams'?" 

Williams' lips twitched in amusement. “True, Private Pettigrew, but that is the name he answers to at the moment. During a bombing raid he escaped from a POW camp, and is heading north towards Norway or Sweden. When he reaches the area and his contacts, we must extract him without being caught." 

Moffitt looked startled, then suspicious. "Of course, sir." 

Tully wondered, _Why them? They weren't Nordic specialists. In fact, they weren't specialists at all._

Williams have read Tully's mind. "Why I am sending you, rather than using any of the commando teams now in the British Isles?" he asked, a laugh in the quiet tones of his voice. 

"Yes, sir," Moffitt acknowledged. 

"This agent is very near and dear to you gentlemen. His real name is Lieutenant Colonel Peter Alexander-" 

"Alexander!" Moffitt gasped. 

"The real one?" Tully asked at the same time. 

"The real one. Yes. Please keep in mind that he is using the name 'Luke Pierson' and address him that way, The original Pierson was a rather undistinguished lieutenant captured after Dunkirk, escaped a POW camp, then vanished. I look forward to getting the complete story from Peter -- ah, Alexander as to how he came by that name." 

"Any idea of when this mission might happen, sir?" Moffitt asked. 

"It might be canceled at any time if the Germans identify Colonel Alexander," Williams said brutally. "If they discover Pierson's real identity, he probably will not survive interrogation. You know how to act under interrogation. You will also be issued cyanide pills in case you are caught." 

"Yes, sir," Moffitt agreed, his face hardening. 

Tully felt a pang of shock at the cyanide. It made clear how important the mission was. They couldn't get caught. "You will have a full briefing when you reach England." 

Williams continued. "You both know how to ski, correct?" 

“Yes, sir," Moffitt said confidently. 

Tully shrugged. "I've been on skis once or twice. Not an expert. I don't fall down easy." 

"Well, if we have time, you will get advanced training before the drop," Williams ordered. "Depending on the weather, you may end up skiing in the mountains." 

Tully looked startled, "It's early April, sir!"

"lt's still snowy in Norway," Williams commented. He looked down at the papers on his desk, then picked up the forms. “One other thing, Sergeant Moffitt." 

"Yes, sir?" Moffitt asked. 

Williams held out the travel forms. “I have reconsidered your separation from your family. After this mission, whatever the outcome, you will not be Colonel Alexander any longer. Therefore, I am ordering you to make a stop in Princeton Junction before going on to Canada. These are your tickets." 

Moffitt stood stunned. 

Finally Tully reached forward and warily took the slips of paper. "Thank you, sir," he said neutrally, not looking at Moffitt. 

Moffitt shook his head slightly, then looked inquisitively at Williams. "Why, sir?" 

"Among other things, your father knows you're alive," Williams said wryly. "He saw a photograph of the Embassy party, he recognized you and contacted someone in the Ministry about it. They got in touch with me. He has stirred up dangerous waters." 

“Ah, yes, sir," Moffitt said, realization dawning. "That photographer took the picture before I could stop him. You said my father read it in a Washington newspaper, sir?" 

"Yes," Williams replied with a touch of amusement. "After your 'funeral', your father was offered a temporary position in Princeton, New Jersey. He took it immediately. He's in America." 

" 'Offered a temporary position' .... Then, did he see me at the funeral, sir?" Moffitt looked upset. 

"He wasn't certain of who he saw, but we couldn't take a chance like that, so we asked the Americans if they would offer him the post," Williams admitted. "It seemed a good idea to get your family out of England until this was settled." 

Moffitt's presence at the funeral must have caused a helluva stir, Tully translated. 

"They're here in America? I can see them?" Moffitt asked one more time, a little dazed. 

Williams chuckled. "Your parents are now in Princeton. Those orders will get you space on the trains but it's to be a brief visit. We need you in England to go to Norway whenever we get the word that Alexander has arrived." 

"Is this wise, sir?" Moffitt looked very happy but was trying not to show it. 

The man nodded, letting a smile creep onto his thin lips. "I've told Professor Moffitt that he might have a visitor. It would be better shutting your father up now, rather than later. After this mission, you, as Alexander, will no longer exist, Sergeant. It is time to resurrect you." 

"Yes, sir!" Moffitt couldn't hide his glee. He grinned broadly, and Williams laughed.

. Tully nodded to himself. That little late·night discussion with Williams had borne fruit. He only hoped that the meeting would work out well. Some risks were worth taking. 

“Now," Williams said, leaning back in his chair, "Lieutenant Partridge has disappeared." 

“Partridge!" Tully said involuntarily. "Disappeared?" 

“Does this have to do with our mission, sir? Did he know the real Alexander, sir?" Moffitt asked. 

Williams smiled grimly, "Very well indeed. Lieutenant Partridge is one of the main reasons I have to speak to Colonel Alexander." 

"Why, sir?" Tully dared to ask. He remembered the night he had brought Moffitt home. Partridge had been edgy. 

"Lieutenant Partridge was the only survivor of the originally mission where Colonel Alexander disappeared. Looking at the circumstances, we would like to know what happened," Williams said in almost a prim tone. 

'"You think he sold the Colonel to the Germans, sir?" Moffitt asked bluntly. 

"Partridge's story is backed up by at least two of the Maquis leaders in the Vichy area," Williams replied. "Now, he has disappeared just as we find that Colonel Alexander is alive. The cable confirming that arrived the night you were attacked." 

With a flash, Tully remembered the pile of telegrams on the table behind Archer when the man let them in the back door. Partridge had gone inside 'to get a drink of water' for Moffitt. Could he have seen the cable? That would explain the shock on his face when he came out. He would have known that Alexander could prove he was a traitor, so he escaped. That meant he had five days advantage on them already in his escape. "Could Lieutenant Partridge know that the Colonel is alive, sir?" 

"Somehow, he must have," Williams said. "I have asked the Americans to find Partridge but he seems to have vanished into thin air." 

"That could be taken as an admission of guilt, Mister Williams," Moffitt commented. 

"True. He also could have been rolled in a brothel and dumped in the Potomac," William retorted. "Concentrate on your mission, gentlemen." 

"And watch our backs," Tully commented. 

"I believe that was one reason you were brought in, Private," Williams said acidly. ”Lastly, I have a little information on the two who attacked you, Sergeant Moffitt."

"Miss Kisa and her tame thug, sir?”

"You should be happy to know that she is now in the care of the New York City police department. and her 'tame thug' is in a neighboring cell. They were picked up for spying." 

"Really, sir!" 

“Yes, really. I'm sure they will be held safely 'til the war is over.“

Tully felt a pang of regret. From what little he'd seen of the woman, she was a doll. She probably wouldn't be able to get clothes that looked like that green dress back in Germany, or that beautiful hat? "Hm. Sir.” 

“Private?"

"I was trying to remember where I'd seen her before. Now I do."

"Where was it?”

"At the station. She was in the crowd when we arrived, Sarge. The man was the one talking to Partridge, remember?" Tully said eagerly. 

“I believe you saw him more clearly than I did," Moffitt said thoughtfully. "If he is connected with Partridge, and she with him. then they would have known that I was Alexander. Partridge marked me at the station!" 

"One more black mark against Lieutenant Partridge," Williams said with a touch of satisfaction. "Private Pettigrew, please give this information to Lieutenant Archer before you leave. It may be important at a later time." 

Tully stiffened. "Yes, sir!" 

"That is all, gentlemen. I suggest you pack and catch the morning train," Williams concluded. A roll of thunder outside heralded the evening storm. Hail pattered against the windowpanes. "Good luck."

They both saluted and left the room. 

GERMANY/NORWAY-March 1943 

The freighter stank of unwashed men, old fish and un-lubricated machinery. Troy. Pierson and Hitchcock paid a high price, laced with a bribe, to get space on the deck where there was fresh air.

Troy wasn't the best of sailors, and listening to the water hitting the iron hull of the Sanga sailing from Hamburg to Bergen was making him nauseous. It could have been the sausage and bread they'd bought at inflated prices in Hamburg, but he wasn't sure. The bottles of beer had tasted just fine. 

He sighed. the sound covered by the sloshing of waves. He wondered how much longer the money would hold out. They'd pawned the cut-glass decanter and glasses, to buy these tickets. Thank God for German bureaucracies. So far no one had hunted them down for Pregger's death. It was possible that they were still trying to identify the Gestapo officer after the explosion. There was a flip side to that; once the Germans realized that three men had escaped, they'd apply their formidable expertise to trying to find them. Troy wondered if it would be before or after Pierson/Alexander died of tuberculosis. 

He let his attention drift to Pierson, who sat by one of the lifeboats, knees up, his chin resting on his folded arms, and eyes closed. The skin was stretched tight over the prominent cheekbones, and the eyes were sunken. He had eaten the bread and drunk a lot of water, but the almost constant coughing was stressing his prison-deprived system. Tension and the need for an iron nerve were also taking their toll. A scruffy beard was grown on the emaciated cheeks, blurring the sharp lines. 

Pierson was balanced on the knife edge. It would take three days for them to reach Bergen, then they would buy tickets for the daily ferry that still plied its way up the jagged coastline despite the dangers of Allied and German submarines. and the Allied bombers that considered any small vessel fair game. It would be ironic to die at the hands of friends after coming all this way. Hopefully. Pierson's friend, Goedhart, would be awaiting them in Trondheim when the ferry docked. That was the plan. 

Hitchcock was leaning over the rail, looking at the iron-grey sea where whitecaps showed how turbulent the current was. They had passed out of the long canal that led from Hamburg out to the sea, and the ship was rocking back and forth. He looked exhilarated. 

Troy remembered Hitch's aghast expression when the train conductor had nearly caught him. It had been pure instinct that made Troy prevent the attack on the officer, and the knowledge that if the man had really struck out, the train might have been held up and everyone interrogated. It was bad enough facing that man, speaking no German and seeing Pierson's watchful gaze but no movement. He didn't blame the Colonel for that, but, irrationally, he wished the other man had spoken up. 

They had gotten farther than Troy imagined they would have. He could almost believe that this would work, and that he' d get back to the States. Their documents had been checked by roving train inspectors but the prison forgeries had worked like a charm. Pierson was an expert at doctoring documents. He was probably an expert at a lot of things, including killing. Right now he just looked on the edge of death. 

His gaze went to Pierson, who had buried his head in his folded arms, his body was shaking in a coughing spasm. 

It was time for them to watch over Pierson so he could get them the rest of the way. In many ways he reminded Troy of Moffitt. His former partner had the same stubborn ability to ignore his illness until the moment of collapse. Troy ignored the fact that he was the same way. That brought up another train of thought. He had never told Hitchcock about Moffitt. If they weren' t sharing the deck with other fresh-air-seeking men. and soldiers, he might. Pierson looked up as Troy sat beside him, resting his back against the wooden lifeboat. They exchanged wary glances, as if they were strangers, then Troy pulled a cigarette and offered it to him. 

Pierson shook his head. "Nein, Danke," he mumbled. 

Troy nodded. "I'll watch," he said softly. "Sleep." 

The other man smiled, then put his head down on his wrists. Other men were settling into secure spots where they were out of the salt spray, and didn't roll about. 

A stranger came over and squatted near them. Troy tensed. He held out a bottle, and nudged Pierson's hand. The sick man lifted his head, and blinked. The man waved the bottle. The reddish liquid sloshed inside. The sludge on the boltom resettled into a dark layer. 

With a smile, Pierson nodded thanks and took it. With shaking fingers, he uncorked it, and took a sip. His eyes widened and he swallowed convulsively, then grinned. The donor slunk off into the crowd leaving Pierson with his bottle. He took another sip, then recorked it. 

Catching Troy's eye, he chuckled. His throat sounded clearer. "Gluwein.”

Troy caught a whiff of his breath. Red wine, maybe with some citrus? Whatever it was, Pierson looked better. He had more color in his face. Maybe this was the magic potion that would keep him alive. If nothing else, he'd die a happy man. 

With any luck, they'd reach Bergen three days hence, and Goedhart would meet them. Troy settled comfortably on the deck and watched the sea gulls flying above him. Then he and Hitch would be as free as those birds, and go home. 

AMERICA-March 1943 

It was a dusty walk from the train station at Princeton Junction into the city. The sun dodged in and out of clouds, and the air was heavy with humidity with the chance of a thunderstorm. Tully couldn't help but think that was the story of his life since Moffitt had returned-bright sunshine with the omnipresent threat of thunder on the horizon. Right now, his partner was more nervous than when he'd disarmed land mines. Maybe meeting with his family was worse than dealing with high explosives. 

"Where are we meeting your father, Sarge?" he asked. 

Moffitt shrugged. He was wearing Colonel Alexander's uniform which was starting to suit him, Tully realized. He had almost forgotten what Moffitt looked like before he became 'an officer'. What they wore on patrol was different from their formal wear in town, but still tailored.

"They're staying with some professors here." 

"Then we should get a phone book and look up-" 

"We'll just ask at the college, Tully!" 

"University." 

Moffitt frowned at him. "Yes, you're right. Here they call it a university. We go to the university and ask." 

"First time I've been to a university," Tully commented brightly, looking around. 

"This place's different from Cambridge," Moffitt answered. Many of the people they passed were young women who probably lived near the university. The few men on the street were either overage for the draft, or too young. Their uniforms stood out. 

"How, Sarge?"

Moffitt struggled for an answer. "Cambridge has been around for so many years, Tully, centuries. Everything there is ingrained. Everything has been done ·that way' for at least three hundred years. You don't have to be spontaneous, you aren't even encouraged to do it a new way. I mean, it was started around 1200 A.D.!" 

"Stratified," Tully suggested. 

Moffitt glanced at him. "That's a good way of putting it." 

"I read about stratification in one of Mack's textbooks. Of course, they were referring to rocks." 

"Well, when you meet my mother, you’ll better understand social stratification," Moffitt with an unexpected edge. 

Tully's jaw dropped. He had never heard Moffitt refer to his parents in that way. In fact, he had never heard Moffitt refer to his mother except in passing on that horrible day when his brother had been killed, and a few comments on a hillside in Kentucky. "Sarge?" 

"Don't call me Sarge," Moffitt retorted automatically. He looked like he regretted mentioning his mother. "Where do you think the University is?" 

Tully pointed. "Look for the church spires." 

"That's like home. There was always an Anglican church connected with the colleges." 

"Here we call it Episcopalian." 

"Right." They set off for the heart of town. 

They never reached it. 

Waiting in front of one of the churches was a hearse drawn by two black horses. The driver was dismounting from the seat. Inside, they heard the soaring ending to a requiem, then the two men separated, each going to their respective carriages. 

Tully saw Moffitt flinch. He hoped that it wasn't a soldier's funeral. Alexander had been buried in Moffitt's grave, with full honors, and the memory was still fresh. And unnerving from the expression on Moffitt's face. The man was rooted on the sidewalk. 

Beyond the church, on the crest of a hill, two gravediggers leaned on their shovels and gazed around. One wiped his forehead before putting his cap back on. They picked up their spades and retired over the hill, obviously waiting to do the last part of the service; actually burying the dead. 

"Here they come," Tully said, seeing the doors starting to open. 

"Maybe we'd better leave," Moffitt commented. "We don't know these people." He didn't move on. 

The doors swung open and people began to spill out onto the pavement. all dressed in black, and wearing somber expressions. The coffin was carried down the stairs by six pallbearers, one, a handsome man wearing a tailored suit and an incongruously worn brown fedora, and loaded onto the caisson, then the men stepped back. 

"Who was he?" Tully muttered intrigued. The crowd of people looked like academics from the nearby school, with a sprinkling of students and some small children whose hands were held firmly by their parents. 

"There they are!" Moffitt said, looking across the street, his tone mixed between hope and uncertainty. 

"Your parents?" Tully squinted, trying to make out a familiar face in the crowd. He knew Moffitt's father from their mission in North Africa. 

Moffitt didn't wave, just waited for a clear moment for his father or mother to look over the crowd and see him. 

Tully finally spotted the neatly-groomed man in the English-tailored suit talking to a silver-haired older man wearing round glasses. On a step below a matron in a dark grey suit, a small veiled hat on her black hair, stood beside a younger, freckled-faced woman. Was the older woman Moffitt's mother? She had his eyes, dark with long lashes that were a startling contrast with her fair skin. 

''Tully .... " Moffitt said uncertainly, looking indecisively across the street. "Will you go-" 

"I'll get his attention," Tully replied calmly, He had half-crossed the street when Professor Moffitt spotted him, and broke off his conversation. 

That he recognized Tully was unmistakable, His gaze shifted up, across the street at the officer who was standing among the long strands of a willow tree, then the dark eyes narrowed, and he shook his head in an undeniable negative. He raised one hand. _Stay there!_

Tully stopped, and glanced back. Moffitt had replaced his hat, his face an expressionless mask. The confident set of his shoulders was now a slight slump. The American felt a wave of anger, but didn't show, it. This wasn't fair. Then again, the British did things differently. Maybe Professor Moffitt had a reason, He'd better have a reason. 

Tully retreated out of the way as the hearse started up to the cemetery, followed by the mourners. Professor Moffitt tugged on the arm of the older woman, whispered something in her ear, then both women followed the mourners. Mrs. Moffitt, if it was her, walked with the carriage of a duchess and the polite expression of a porcelain figurine. If she was upset, she didn't show it. 

She just might be upset, Tully thought. It was only six months ago that she buried her last son. Now she was back in a graveyard again, Professor Moffitt waited until the majority of the mourners were inside the cemetery before he crossed the street to where his son was waiting. 

Tully fell into step or two behind him, wondering what was going to happen next. 

The Moffitts studied each other for a second, then Professor Moffitt put his hand on his son's shoulder. The grip was tentative, then stronger. Moffitt put his hand over his father's and gave it a reassuring pressure, then both men suddenly grinned. The professor hugged his son. 

"You are alive!" he said with massive relief, and joy in his low voice. 

"Yes, I'm afraid so, sir," Moffitt replied dryly, with a sparkle in his eye. He couldn't repress a smile. 

"Glad to know the Jerries were wrong that time." 

Moffitt looked eager. "Mother? Does she know?"

Professor Moffitt stepped away. "Let's walk, Jack. I have to talk with you about your mother." 

“We have to be back at the railway station in a half-hour." 

"Then, I’ll walk you there," his father replied. He glanced back at Tully who gave him a reassuring nod, then fell back a couple of paces as the men walked on. 

"Mother?" Moffitt asked again, his tone foreboding. "She's fine, Holding up well. But I didn't tell her that you were alive." 

"What?" Moffitt stopped dead. 

"Let me explain," his father said calmly, walking on. "Come along." 

Tully, trailing behind, could hear them clearly. He kept a sharp watch out for anyone else who might be interested in the pair. They were too engrossed in their conversation to pay attention to dangers hidden in every neatly-trimmed garden hedge or behind the post boxes. The open windows of the small houses could hide spies. At least, that was his excuse for staying so close. 

"I was in the college library when I saw that picture, Jack. I was ... shattered. Shocked. I knew it was you but how could that be? Then I remembered the funeral. You hid yourself very well, but I knew that stranger had to be you when I saw the newspaper photograph," his father said in a tense whisper. "I knew called a friend in the Ministry, someone I trusted, and he made some inquiries. A day ago, I received a visit from a rather stiff Flight Lieutenant Archer who took me aside and told me the truth. Said you'd come and visit in a little while, but I was not to say anything to anyone but your mother. What's it’s all about, Jack?" 

Moffitt stopped for a second, and stared at him. He started again, mulling over the words. "I can't tell you that, sir." 

"They asked me if your mother had seen it," his father continued. "I told them she hadn't." 

Moffitt sighed in relief. "I think Mother would have handled it -- " 

"She would have made a fuss," Professor Moffitt said flatly. 

"Maybe not," Moffitt replied in an even voice. He and his father exchanged knowing looks. Behind them. Tully wondered again about his mother. 

"She cried at the funeral," his father offered. 

"I saw. It was very touching. The vicar spoke well even though he didn't know me. Came there after my time in Cambridge. So, they sent you here, sir." Moffitt changed the topic rapidly. 

"I chose to come here," Professor Moffitt retorted. "We're staying with the Joneses until our apartment in New York is ready, and we get the coupon system under control. I'm doing some work at their Columbia University but I hope to go back to England in the near future." 

"And Mother?" 

"She's handling it quite well considering she hates being uprooted," his father said with a grin. "Remember the year we took her to Cairo?" 

Moffitt gave a faint smile. "She spent the entire winter season running the social circle while we were digging. More marriages that year than ever before. I think some of them were too afraid to back out."

"It was the only year we got her out there. She really prefers to be in Cambridge running the garden club and the undergraduate teas." Professor Moffitt stopped walking and looked back towards the graveyard, his face worried. 

Moffitt turned inquiringly, and caught a quizzical look from Tully. The American gave him a faint smile, then glanced at his father. 

"Why don't you tell him the truth. Professor?" Tully questioned unexpectedly. 

Moffitt looked puzzled, then turned to his father who shot Tully a hot glare. "The truth?" 

"Why you haven't told his mother he's alive. Future prospects." 

Professor Moffitt stared at him, taken aback. "That's very insightful, Private Pettigrew." 

"What 'insightful'?" Moffitt demanded with a sharp edge. "Father?" 

"Jack, whatever you're doing, whatever your new mission is, it wouldn't be fair to tell your mother you're alive-and then to tell her you're dead if we lose you again," his father said flatly. 'I’ve lost one son; no, officially, both of them. Despite your relationship your mother--yes, I know about them, Jack, I've known for years-I can't put her through that again until you can stay alive." 

Moffitt flushed. It was bluntly stated and heartfelt and no matter how much he wanted to see his mother, he knew his father was right. His mother had been through a lot in the last year. His brother had been close to her, closer than Moffitt, but he was the one left alive. 

He nodded, his expression a mask covering his emotions. That his father knew of the problems between him and his mother bothered him intensely. The atmosphere lightened when Moffill laughed and waved to the insignia. "At least, I'm an officer now!" 

"That would make your mother very happy." his father retorted, his eyes filled with understanding and regret. "She never understood why you joined as an enlisted man."

“I know. We discussed it once when I was recovering from Dunkirk. Just once." 

Professor Moffitt raised his hand in protest, then let it drop uselessly. The unspoken understanding flowed between them. "Come back to us when you can, Jack. If nothing else, set up a way that I can get a message to you. I want to know if you're dead or alive." 

"We're nearly there," Tully called, closing in behind them. Across the street, the station was bustling with people checking in for the next train.

The professor looked around at the crowds. "Watch yourself. lads. Wherever you are going, be careful. I'd like to see both of you again," Tully said unexpectedly, "We'd better split up here or you'll miss the ceremony. Whose funeral was that, Professor?" 

"Hm? Oh, one of the administrators died unexpectedly from a heart attack. Marcus Brody. Pity, He was a fine man," Professor Moffitt replied. His gaze was on his son who stared back at him with some trepidation, hope, and almost-hidden love. "Take care, son." 

"Yes, Father." 

He turned to Tully. startling him. "You be careful also, Private Pettigrew." 

"Thank you, sir." 

"I should hate to lose a man who'd read my books," the professor said with a slight smile. 

"Which reminds me, do you have a copy of your second book?" Moffitl asked unexpectedly, 

" _The Caves in Amaranth_? I can get one. Why?" his father studied him quizzically. 

"I promised your nephew a copy, Tully," Moffitt said. 

"Give me the address. I'll make sure he gets a copy," Professor Moffitt promised. 

Tully jotted down the address and handed to him. "It's sort of up in the hills. Off the beaten track, sir." 

"Mack would be honored," Moffitt joked. "He's underlined all over the first book. Kept asking me to explain things. I don't think I ever read it that closely." 

His father raised an eyebrow. "A fan of mine? Maybe I should go visit him. I'd better get back to the funeral. Be careful, Jack." "

"Don't wait up for me, Father," Moffitt replied lightly, emotion underlying his words. "That's our train, Tully." 

Tully looked back before they went into the stations. Moffitt's father was watching them, his anguish plain. Then the man turned and plunged into the crowd heading towards the cemetery. Tully pondered if he should tell Moffitt but decided not to. No need to upset 'Colonel Alexander' at this point. Maybe he would never need to know that his father didn't expect him to come back alive. 

NORWAY-March 1943 

Lieutenant Lipken knocked on the door, then opened it at Dietrich's command. Major Stahl stalked into the office. 

Dietrich looked up at him, noting the man's coat swirled in the appropriate fashion around his polished boots, and his buckles shone like gold stars. He was the perfect textbook picture of a successful Gestapo officer, and the soldier across the desk hated his guts. It was strange how that emotion had suddenly swelled up from nowhere. He hated to admit it; it was dangerous to admit it. He hoped he had hidden it from the man's beady eyes, 

He had, he noted cynically, because Stahl's eyes were on Sigrid who was putting the last of the luncheon dishes on her tray. Dietrich bristled defensively, and saw that Stahl had noticed it, and approved. Stahl was laying it down to jealousy. Fine, let him. It was an emotion that Stahl undoubtedly understood. 

"Can I help you, Major?" Dietrich asked, drawing his attention. 

"I need your troops," Stahl replied baldly, sitting down without an invitation. 

Dietrich sat, his gaze pinned on the man. "My troops? Why?" 

"I have had a message from Hamburg. The British spy Lieutenant Colonel Alexander is on his way to Trondheim." 

"Trondheim?" Dietrich said in surprise. "Why there? Who is this 'Colonel Alexander'?" 

Stahl ignored his second question. "The first message I received said that he would be going to Denmark, but that was followed by another saying he was on his way here. I have a number of troops already in Trondheim but we will have to check the papers of every man on the ferry, and need your men." 

“The ferry? You mean those wooden boats that come up every day?" 

Stahl gestured impatiently. "Yes, we missed him in Bergen. The message just arrived. It had been delayed in Berlin. I cannot divert one of our destroyers so we must be there when the ferry docks in Trondheim to pick him up. So will you." 

Dietrich's eyebrow went up. "Me?" 

"You." Stahl gave a wolfish grin. "I am asking for your help, Hauptmann Dietrich, and the use of your troops. I believe that is part of your duties, helping the Gestapo?'" 

"My duties are to ensure that the supplies are sent to the Reich and to make sure the country is smoothly governed," Dietrich replied sharply. "The Reichskommissar does not wish our people to starve next winter! Rationing is already in effect-" 

Stahl cut him off. "This is all true, Hauptmann; but here is the moment where you can draw the attention of the High Command once again, and maybe get transferred from Norway. The capture of Colonel Alexander would be a feather in your cap." 

Dead silence. Dietrich wondered if his dislike for his current job was that obvious, "I go where I am ordered, Major Stahl." 

"To Trondheim, eh?" 

"How did you come by this information?" Dietrich prevaricated. 

Stahl gave him a broad grin. "We have had a spy codenamed 'Mourning Dove' in place in Washington. He managed to discover that Colonel Alexander survived the ambush that supposedly killed him in France and is now headed here." 

"This Alexander is that important?" 

"Important to the Allies, yes, and thus to us. We must capture him!" Stahl said enthusiastically, thumping on the desk.

"What about this 'Mourning Dove'?,' 

“He is also arriving in several days. and will help us make firm confirmation. Apparently it was too dangerous for him to stay in America and the High Command sent a U· boat to pick him up. He is a very important man," Stahl concluded happily. "So, your troops are ready to go. Herr Hauptmann?"

Dietrich nodded. "I will order Lipken to have them assemble at four a.m. and we will drive to Trondheim in time to meet your boat, Major." From the corner of his eye, he saw Sigrid turn the doorknob with one hand, the other wrapped around the tray to keep the dishes from rattling. He'd forgotten the woman was still in the room. Hopefully, Stahl hadn't noticed. 

Stahl stood. "I will be there." 

"One moment, Major. Do you have a picture of this Alexander?" Dietrich asked boldly. 

"Ja." Stahl reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a photograph. "He looks like this man. This was taken at a party in Washington." 

_Do all Englishmen look like Sergeant Moffitt?_ was Dietrich's first thought. Alexander was a ringer for the dead man, from his height to the black curls on his head, to his dark thick eyebrows. The photographer must have taken the picture unexpectedly. He looked startled. In one hand was a wine glass and he stood next to a ravishingly beautiful blonde woman. Lucky man. 

"He is coming out of Germany?" Dietrich mused. "Why was he there?" 

"He will tell us that as well as much more," Stahl said impatiently. "I am leaving you a file on Colonel Alexander, Hauptmann Dietrich. You will return it to me tomorrow. Four a.m.?" He snapped his fingers and Lipken came forward with a file. 

Dietrich wondered if Lipken had had it all along somewhere buried on his desk. He really must get the man transferred. "I look forward to reading it. I will see at you at four, Herr Major." 

After the man left, Dietrich wandered over to the window and looked out at the building opposite. The sun was setting through a sliver in the dark clouds that blanketed the sky. The orange-red light was turned the soot-stained buildings into flaming shadows. Looking back at the desk, he saw it was nearly seven p.m. If he was going to be up at four a.m., he'd better get some rest.

He lingered by the window until the sunlight faded away. The town was a dark shadow around the buildings barely perceptible against dark, rain-bloated clouds. His eyes were caught by a light below, as Sigrid carne through the front door to the kitchen, her body swathed in a shawl against the chill. She headed down the street purposefully. 

Reluctantly, he wondered where she was going. Was she part of the Resistance planted in his office to get information on the Reich's future plans'? Was she hurrying to see a boyfriend or lover or her parents or a child? She knew about the upcoming raid at Trondheim. Maybe this was going to be a test then. If they were ambushed, or Alexander wasn't on the daily ferry, then she had passed on secret information, and Dietrich knew he'd have to do something about her. If they captured the man, then she was innocent. He hoped that the stupid spy was in bonds by tomorrow noon. He didn't want to hand Sigrid over to Stahl. 

Dietrich's gaze went back to the photograph. The man looked so familiar. Who was this infamous "Lieutenant Colonel Peter Alexander?" The folder was an inch thick, but paging through it, he found that most of the recent reports were second or third-hand. 

The personal data was skimpy. Alexander had served in the last year of the earlier war, then retired to the diplomatic service where he made quick progress due to the fact that he was often assigned to places of high tension; Moscow, Cairo, Paris. Early reports from the mid-Thirties mentioned his visiting spas and ski vacations among exalted visitors from England. Dietrich wondered what poor clerk in Berlin had had to cull the files for Alexander sightings. 

What impressed Dietrich was that the man had left few trails in his superbly executed pre-War work. A coup in the Balkans, a spy ring broken in Malta, a trip to Poland and Hungary. He doubted the Germans would have found him if 'Mourning Dove' hadn't betrayed Alexander in Vichy France. The spy had vanished, then reappeared in North Africa in October. 

Dietrich frowned. North Africa? He hadn't heard about Alexander in North Africa. Of course, they might have missed telling him but surely he would have heard something if they had been hunting this illustrious a spy. 

The file ended with a fresh memo on Alexander in Washington DC. Dietrich checked back to see if there were any messages from their informant, Mourning Dove. He found an impressive amount of translated cables from the spy, complaining that no one was listening to him about Alexander. Dove was insistent that Alexander was dead, had been dead since September, had died in France. and that the British were misleading the Reich into believing that Alexander was alive. 

Dietrich glanced at the photograph and then back at the last cable, not from Mourning Dove, which placed Alexander in America. Frowning, he leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips. 

Something is wrong here... How old is this man? He flipped to the first page. “Born 1901." That means he is .. .forry-two He looked at the picture. He is not forty-two. Facts tugged at his memory, and he shut his eyes, trying to make what was struggling come to the top. Alexander was in North Africa. Where in North Africa? 

He lifted several sheets 'til he found the report from a minor informant in El Alamein, after the British retook it, who had heard that Colonel Alexander was in a hospital suffering from a shoulder injury. The spy had only discovered this when the Gestapo asked if Colonel Alexander was there. Apparently the Colonel had been on a secret mission just before the atack, and been hurt. 

A secret mission. A few days before the attack ... I was in that area. What secret mission? He looked at the papers, then lifted up the photo. Colonel Alexander was born in 1901. This man was not. This man's probably twenty-eight. twenty-nine. He was injured in a secret mission five or so months ago. _About the time I caught the Rat Parrol on a secret mission. They were all injured. One was killed._ A laugh bubbled up and he swallowed it. He slammed shut the folder, and tossed it on the top of his desk. _I don't believe it. I don't believe it!_

He strolled over to the window, looked out, then paced around the room returning to the desk. His shoulders starting to shake. Finally, he started to laugh. Leaning on the wall behind desk, he laughed until the picture of Hitler shook in its frame. 

_Well done. Sergeant Troy! Well Done!_

Dietrich wiped his eyes and snorted. Pulling out a handkerchief, he bIew his nose, then started to laugh again. Looking at the photograph, he thought, _Hello. Sergeant Moffitt. You 've finally become an officer. Are you enjoying it?_

In his memory, he saw Troy kneeling by Moffitt's body ... whomsoever’s body. He had taken the dog tags for sentimental reasons, Dietrich had assumed, to send back to Moffitt's family, and identified the man as his friend. There was no reason for Dietrich to think it wasn't Moffitt, and Troy abetted that misunderstanding. Why? Who knows? The American had always been a mystery to Dietrich. He knew he could trust Troy's word, but understand why he did things? No. 

_So. Mourning Dove is correct... maybe. Who was the mysterious man, the not-Moffitt body? Could he have been the real Alexander after all?_ Dietrich frowned. He checked the file. Dove claimed Alexander died in September. Alexander turns up just after the British overrun El Alamein. If the man who had been run over had been a fake, then was Alexander really dead? 

"More to the point, who is the man who is coming to Norway?" Dietrich said aloud. "The real Alexander? Or another fake from the English? How do I explain this to Stahl?" His lips twitched in amusement. Explain the Rat Patrol and how they had tricked him? No, better to look for the real Alexander tomorrow on the docks, a man in his forties who didn't look Norwegian, and explain later. Stahl would look foolish if he arrested all the men who looked like Moffitt. Dietrich smiled at the thought.

Mourning Dove would also be arriving soon. He knew Alexander and could provide positive identification, which was good since the photograph was obviously useless. Dietrich chuckled at the frozen expression on Moffitt's face. _Really, he doesn't look like he is comfortable. That is a beautiful woman on his arm. He should be enjoying himself._ Momentarily he wondered he wondered where the other members of the Patrol were. Troy and Hitchcock were POWs and the last man, Private Pettigrew, had been in a medical exchange. Maybe he should send a copy of the photograph to Troy with a small note. It was something to consider ...but there were too few hours before four a.m. 

Switching off the desk light, he headed to his quarters. 

NORWAY-MarchiApril 1943 

By the coastal express ferry, it was a six-day trip to Trondheim. Bad weather and fear of Allied submarines had forced the captain to take shelter in several fjords along the way, extending the voyage, and most of the passengers had been soaked in the rains, and chilled to the bone as the night temperatures dropped to just above freezing. 

The men had kept silent for most of the trip since the only common language was English, but on the second night Hitchcock had taken up position on the other side of Pierson, protecting him from some of the elements. The man hadn't protested. Troy sat on the other side, feigning ignorance of the man he was sheltering.

Despite the gluwein, Pierson's cold had developed into pneumonia. Troy admired the man's stubbornness; only death was going to get in the way of his escape. He looked like a walking corpse, with his sallow skin, red spots on his high cheekbones, and an omnipresent racking cough. He had spent several nights in the stuffy cabins. This morning he'd come out at daybreak which Troy noticed was coming earlier and earlier as they approached the Arctic Circle. The crisp air seemed to help a little, though he shivered like an aspen in a breeze. 

The wooden ferry sailed into the harbor, bordered on three sides with tall mountains that pierced the cloud cover overhead. Carved by the glaciers that had covered this land aeons ago, Norway was a green lush country on steep mountains. A few pine trees dotted the hillsides beyond the long low town with its cathedral of greenish rock dominating the city, The boat sailed past an island with an medieval abbey seated on it like a sentinel. and flying a Nazi flag, then came up to the dock where a wooden gangway, with ropes to help passengers off the ferry, was waiting for it to dock. 

Troy's skin prickled as he looked at the dock. It was crawling with grey-clad troops, milling around. The civilians were held back from the quay by soldiers. Pierson looked over his shoulder, at the crowd, and sighed. "Why?" he muttered, then coughed. It rattled down deep in his chest. 

Troy shrugged. 

Hitchcock moved towards the restrooms. Usually there was a crowd there waiting impatiently to use the small outhouse but in the excitement of docking, the facility was empty. 

Pierson moved back into the crowd as well. Troy could tell where he was from the sound of his rattling cough. The American took out his last cigarette, lit it, and sucked in the smoke. If they did get caught, then he wouldn't waste it on the Germans. 

Around him, men stirred, stretched, made jokes in foreign languages that ranged from Polish to French, but mostly Norwegian, and gazed dull-eyed at the dock. There was an undercurrent of unease in their voices, and they cleared the way for the troops who came out of the cabin to form up in a troop. 

The ship docked, and an officer climbed up the rickety gangplank and corralled the leader of the incoming troops. There was a loud discussion in German, with frequent waving towards the crowd. The passengers understood what was going on, and were restive. 

Troy wished he knew what was happening. He kept his attention pinned on the small crowd, so the touch on his shoulder came as a distinct shock. The rattling cough told him who it was before he turned. He felt the cold metal of Pregger's gun pushed into his hand, and he transferred it to his coat pocket without hesitation. 

"They're after me," Pierson whispered. "They have my name. Remember your promise, Troy." 

The Germans had finally finished the discussion. The officer who had climbed aboard looked distinctly annoyed as the troops disembarked. They marched through the crowd on the dock and took up a position against the nearest building. 

Troy moved with the crowd who was surging forward. He saw Hitchcock’s blond hair up at the front as the private shuffled along. 

The troops on the dock had formed a blockade. The disembarking men had to show their identification, passport, work book, ration card, army pass and whatever else the soldiers wanted. It was a painfully long wait until the first people shuffled through the line of troops and up to where the civilians were waiting for them. The few reunions were subdued and people escaped from the area as quickly as they could. 

Troy disembarked in the middle of the crowd, hoping that the faked documents in his pocket would work. They had passed muster at other stops, but not the kind of intense scrutiny the papers were getting now.

Hitchcock was up towards the front now. Troy kept his eye on the private as he moved with the crowd. 

Suddenly, there was some kind of a fuss, and loud cries. A man was pulled out of the crowd, tali, lanky and dark-haired and for one breathless second, Troy thought it was Pierson. The man was too young to be the spy. Officers trotted over to see what was going on, and with a distinctly ugly shock, Troy recognized the light-brown-haired officer with a stiff, reserved posture, who followed a Gestapo man. Dietrich? How the hell did Hans Dietrich get here? 

He bit his lip. Well, since the Germans had lost North Africa, it shouldn't be a surprise that Dietrich had been transferred if he'd survived. Troy, in those brief minutes when he thought of the officer, liked to believe Dietrich to be wallowing in the pleasures of Paris or Berlin, not standing on a wet dock in Norway wearing an expression of absolute loathing for the well-dressed Gestapo officer he followed.

It was a stroke of bad luck for him and Hitch. Dietrich could identify them in a heartbeat, and would. 

Looking around, Troy saw Hitchcock take back his papers from a now distracted German soldier, and move to the other side of the square, free to enter the city. He gave a sigh of relief, and checked the crowd for Pierson, 

The tall man was nowhere in sight. Immensely uneasy, Troy tried to find him, The crowd was thinning as men passed through the cordon or were being detained to the right side of the dock beside an aging warehouse. The officer and Dietrich were checking some kind of photograph in their hand against the protesting captive, and the troops were eyeing them, 

A bout of coughing finally pinpointed Pierson's whereabouts, The man was at the same level as Troy in the crowd, about to hand a guard his paperwork. The guard looked disgusted at the ill man and flipped open the passport. It seemed in order so he handed it back, and waved him through. The officers let go of the protester, since he obviously wasn't the man for whom they were looking. Dietrich scanned the crowd. 

Troy ducked his head and turned back to the soldier, who held out a hand. The man began going through the papers, his attention split between the officers, and the stuff in his hand.

The sergeant wanted to kill him. It look five minutes for him to finally accept that the documents were legitimate, and hand them back. Dietrich was dangerously close to Troy by that time. 

He didn't risk looking at Pierson who was shuffling out of the crowd right in front of Dietrich and the others. His shoulders were hunched and he coughed at virtually every step. He sounded like he was going to die at any moment. 

The Gestapo man turned to Dietrich and rattled off a flood of German. Dietrich's cultured tones contradicted the other's words politely. Troy smothered a grin. He had heard that kind of tone in the captain's voice before even if he didn't understand the language. Dietrich was being politely obstructive, and the other was furious and frustrated. 

Whatever was being discussed ended abruptly with a command to the troops. They marched forward into the crowd, selecting men all of the same type. Tall, lanky. dark-haired and a decade younger than Pierson.

Pierson noted this with alarm and walked a little faster towards the building where Hitchcock was loitering unobtrusively. Dietrich turned and saw him, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. He waved to one of the troops, who intercepted Pierson. 

Troy cursed under his breath. The trooper brought Pierson back to Dietrich and the Gestapo man who physically recoiled when Pierson began to cough. The man couldn't cover his face with a hand since both arms were held by troopers. 

Dietrich was unmoved as he studied Pierson. 

''This can't be the man," the Gestapo man said. 

"He is the right age, Major Stah!," Dietrich said crisply. 

"He does not look like the photograph!" Stahl fumed. 

"That is true." Dietrich checked the photograph in his hand. 

Troy moved towards Hitchcock. who was watching tensely. A trooper intercepted him, then stepped back. Troy obviously didn't fit the physical description they were looking for. Pierson began to cough. One of the troopers released his arm so he could cover his mouth. It seemed to help. 

"Hauptmann Dietrich?" Stahl questioned, staring at Pierson in disdain. "What will you do?" 

"Still. ... " Dietrich waved to one of the guards. "This man is ill. Take him to the hospital and put him in one of the prison wards." 

Pierson went white, and swayed on his feet. 

Troy took one step towards the group, then with an effort, stopped himself. His gaze met Pierson's desperate one. Then he collapsed, dragging the guard who still had a grip on his arm to his knees. Dietrich caught at the falling man, snapping orders in German, and the other guard put Pierson's arm over his shoulder. 

"That man is ill! Let me through," a burly man ordered behind them. He visibly swallowed when Dietrich and Stahl faced him but came forward with a medical bag in his hand. 

"Who are you?" Stahl asked arrogantly. flicking his gloves back and forth. 

"I am a doctor, and this is an obviously ill man. He should be in hospital," the newcomer said. 

"Doctor ...?" 

"Goedhart.,. 

"And what are you doing down here?" Dietrich asked. 

Goedhart looked slightly disconcerted but covered swiftly. "I was going to see a patient but I got caught in the crowd. This man might be contagious, Herr Hauptmann. He needs to be taken to a hospital!"

Dietrich glanced back at Pierson. who had raised his head. He was trying to take deep breaths, but was reduced to gasping, then coughing. "He will be taken to a hospital." 

"We have a ward at Headquarters," Stahl broke in. "A doctor will see to him there." 

Troy saw a flicker of disappointment on Pierson's face, then the man let his head sink to his chest. He cursed under his breath. If Dietrich had let Goedhart have Pierson, they'd be in the clear again. As it was, Pierson'was now a prisoner, and Troy could do nothing about it. 

The soldiers carried the barely-conscious man towards where the small crowd of men also singled out for their appearance, were being loaded into a truck. Several women were screaming and crying as they saw the men leave.

Dietrich and Stahl drove off in a staff car, the majority of the troops following in several trucks. The dock rapidly emptied as new passengers loaded onto the ferry, and the others dispersed. 

Troy raised an eyebrow at Hitchcock and nodded his head. The young man slouched after Goedhart, who was striding over the wet cobblestones into the city. One of Dietrich's photographs, caught by the wind, wrapped itself around Troy's leg. and he shoved it into his pocket without looking at it. 

The language on the dingy shop windows was unintelligible. and the city was cold and damp from the morning dew, though the sun was trying to break through the mist. Troy realized that he and Hitchcock were really on their own now. The only person who could help them was walking briskly into the city. probably with no knowledge of their existence. 

Taking a chance he took a cross-street and quickened his pace for a block. 

Looking right, he saw he was successful. He was now parallel to Goedhart. who was heading down the next block. Crossing the intersection, Troy hurried again, then cut down a convenient alley to see if he could get ahead of Goedhart. 

The doctor squeaked as a hand shot out of the alley and grabbed him, dragging him a few feet into the narrow passage into the back doorway of a shop. Several garbage bins protected them from view. 

Hitchcock came around the corner and leaned back on the rough concrete wall, protecting Troy and Goedhart from view. His eyes watched the street. 

Goedhart's eyes bulged. Troy's forearm was pressed against his windpipe. He stared at Goedhart's terrified eyes, then Troy reached into his shirt to the dog tags that sat next to his skin. He pulled them out and held them up. 

Goedhart's gaze flew to them, and he went a pasty white. The writing was clearly visible in the morning light. 

"Who are ... you?” he croaked in English.

"Keep it down," Troy muttered. "Why were you at the dock?" 

Coedhart cringed. "English? The dock?" 

"Yeah, the dock! Where you there to meet someone?" 

The man's eyes looked around frantically. 

Hitchcock saw three soldiers pass the mouth of the alley, and waved to Troy to get down. Troy dragged the doctor with him into the shadow of the door. 

Hitchcock lifted the top off the garbage can next to him and began perusing the contents. One soldier saw him and made some kind of contemptuous comment, and pointed. After Hitchcock pulled out a stained bag, the soldier gestured obscenely, then the trio walked on. He put the lid back on, and sneezed. "Safe." 

"You're American?" Goedhart finally said, staring at them both. 

"Yeah. Who were you going to meet?" Troy asked again. 

"Ja. A friend." 

"A colonel?" Troy shot. 

Goedhart relaxed slightly. "You know him?" 

"What's his name, doctor?" 

"Alexander. I set his fingers when he broke them in a skiing accident.·' 

Troy remembered Alexander saying Coedhart had helped fix his hand. The stories matched. "Then you know what's happened?" 

"Who are you?" Coedhart asked in a intense whisper. "Were you with him?" 

"Yeah," Troy said. "We were with him. Where are they taking him?" 

"Susevend. It's about ten miles from here." 

"How can we get there?" Troy asked, slackening his grip. 

"You're not thinking of saving him?" Goedhart said aghast. "There are thousands of troops there-" 

"And Gestapo," Hitchcock murmured, “and Dietrich, Troy." 

Troy nodded. "Yeah, but Pierson's there too, and he's the important one. Can you get us there?" 

Goedhart nodded. "You must be with him. You have his other name." Troy realized his unconscious use of Pierson had finally confirmed their identities to Goedhart. "I will set up some transportation." 

"Can we find a place away from the Krauts first, Sarge?" Hitchcock protested. 

“Yes. Follow me." Goedhart stood up, and brushed the mold off his coat. With Troy by his side, he headed up the alley and into the city. 

Hitchcock trailed a half-block behind. 

The store was dark inside, and the warped frame of the door stuck until Goedhart gave it a hard shove. The bell echoed around the empty room. 

A well-dusted desk clock sat in the empty store window as if to show off the beauty of the craftsmanship, but other than that there were only three clocks lying in pieces on the counter. An elderly man, seated to one side was painstakingly cleaning the wheels that probably went in the grandfather clock behind him. He peered over his half-glasses at their entrance, then came forward, speaking in Norwegian. 

Troy had seldom felt so helpless. He had no idea what the man was saying, if the man was pro-German or anti, and he had to trust Goedhart. The clock-maker's eyes narrowed suspiciously, and he shifted his glance to the newcomers, but then he nodded. 

Hitchcock shut the door. "More krauts, Sarge," he said in an undertone. 

"Don't speak here!" Goedhart ordered. A troop of German soldiers went past the window and everyone froze. He waited 'til they passed. "It's dangerous to move around right now. The town is still full of troops brought in for the dock raid. My friend will provide you with shelter and some food." 

Hitchcock's stomach rumbled in approval and he looked embarrassed. 

"What about him?"' Troy asked, glancing at the clockmaker. 

The old man beamed at Goedhart. "He'll go back to his clocks and tell us if the Germans are coming. He's very good at that." 

"Right," Troy agreed with an edge of suspicion to his tone. "Hitch, take the rear." 

“Right, Sarge." Goedhart led them into the back room with a wooden table, four chairs, and a tea kettle on a small iron stove. He filled the kettle, and put it on the fire, which was banked low. 

Hitchcock came in and leaned against the wall, watching them. 

"I brought some food with me," Goedhart explained, his hand going into his pocket. Black bread, an onion, and a cleaned turnip came out of a cloth-wrapped bundle. "Sit down , and eat.'· 

"Thanks. You first," Troy said, taking one chair. 

"You don't trust me?" the man asked humorously. "I don't blame you. You don't know me at all." 

"That's right," Troy said. "How were you planning to get him out of Norway?" 

Goedhart knew who he was referring to. "There will be a team of commandos arriving tomorrow. They were to take him back with them. Of course, now that won't happen." 

Troy was struck dumb at the reply. The man obviously trusted them ... or was he a German informer? He could turn them in at any time. 

"What are you going to do now?" 

Goedhart shrugged. "I will tell London to cancel the raid. It is useless now." 

"Don't do that!" Hitchcock burst out. "Sarge?" 

"We intend to get him out," Troy said flatly. 

"It is dangerous now to try and free him. He is a prisoner in the hospital," Goedhart protested. 

"So that's what Dietrich was saying!" Hitchcock interrupted. He didn't move towards the food, though his gaze was pinned on the bread. 

"You know Hauptmann Dietrich?" Goedhart asked his tone changing. 

Troy smiled slightly. "A long-time acquaintance from North Africa. Why is he here? Who was that louse with him?" 

"Major Stahl?" Goedhart had no problem translating the idiom. "He wants to advance by impressing his superiors with his work in Norway. He prosecutes as many innocent people as he can and deports them. He caught the last team of commandos, and now they are dead." 

"He caught them?"' Troy said in surprise. 'Not Dietrich?”

"Hauptmann Hans Dietrich's aide Lipken reported them to Stahl first. Dietrich is a more conventional officer. He has been known to turn a blind eye to some things. We try not to interfere with him so he does not have to carry out reprisals, The orders are not to injure him." 

"If you do, the Germans would replace him with something worse," Troy translated. 

"Exactly. Major Stahl makes life difficult enough for him without our adding to it." 

"I almost feel sorry for him," Hitchcock commented “Sarge .... " 

"Go ahead, Hitch," Troy agreed. his gaze still pinned on Goedhart. Hitchcock picked up one of the slices of bread and began to chew on the tough crust. "So, Pierson's in that hospital now."

"In Gestapo headquarters. I think that when they go through the papers of the other men, that he will be discovered," Goedhart admitted reluctantly. "Then Major Stahl will send him back to Berlin in the hope that Stahl will transferred somewhere more congenial like France or Italy." 

"If he lives that long," Hitchcock said around a mouthful of bread. "Pierson, that is. He was coughing pretty badly." 

"Can't get information from a dead man," Troy agreed grimly. 

The man spread his hands in a gesture of leaving it up to God, then picked up one of the bread slices. "If London is still set on the raid, the commandos can give you a ride home, gentlemen. They'll have no one else to take out." 

Troy's lips tightened. He glared out the small window. He was not going to leave Pierson a prisoner. If nothing else. Troy intended to keep his promise to kill him. "Can you tell us more about the hospital?" 

The man stared at him. "You can't be thinking of rescuing him!" 

Troy smiled. “We've come this far. We need to finish the job." 

Hitchcock nodded. "All for one and one for all." 

Goedhart shook his head in disbelief. "Who are you, gentlemen?" 

"Sam Troy, Sergeant. US Army." Troy jerked a thumb at Hitchcock who had his mouth full. "Private Mark Hitchcock. We're commandos. Or we were, before we were POWs." 

"You're both insane if you are thinking of a rescue," Goedhart said with conviction. 

"Where's the hospital? [f we get him out, can you get him to the rescue party?" Troy asked. 

"He's in no shape to move right now. Maybe in several days," Goedhart said doubtfully. "Maybe some help later on."

"What do we do until then, Sarge?" Hitchcock asked after swallowing. 

Troy stared at Goedharl. "What do we do? When can you move us?"

"I will try and make it tonight. You must be prepared to leave at a second's notice. Do you know anything about repairing clocks? Leif can used the help." 

Troy shrugged. "I know how to set them for bombs. We'll wait for you then." 

Goedhart stood. "I’ll explain it to Leif. I will be back tomorrow." He walked into the front rooms and began talking in Norwegian. 

Hitchcock clicked his tongue then looked at Troy. "Can we trust him?" 

"Got a better idea?" Troy said. He picked up the last pieces of bread and bit in. As he chewed, he discarded his rain-soaked overcoat. The paper rustled in his pocket. He pulled out the photograph tossing it onto the table absently. 

"What the-" Hitchcock stared at it in disbelief. 

"Huh?" Troy looked down and stopped chewing for a second. Then he resumed. 

"Sarge... that's Moffitt!" Hitch said. looking up in disbelief. 

"Looks like him," Troy agreed, not meeting Hitchcock's eyes. 

"I thought he was dead!" Hitch shot accusingly. 

"I know." 

"You knew he was alive?" 

Troy hung the coat and sat before answering. Finally, he picked up the photo and inspected it carefully. "Yeah. thaI's him. I wonder who the beautiful girl is.” 

"You knew then,” Hitchcock's voice was quietly accusing. "All this time. Sarge.... " 

"I wasn't sure he was still alive," Troy said honestly. "When Dietrich picked us out of that raid, there was a dead man in Moffitt's jacket." 

Hitchcock thought back. and shook his head. "Moffitt's jacket?”

"Moffitt loaned his jacket to that Colonel Alexander, remember? The jeep ran over the body. Dietrich thought it was Moffitt's, and Moffitt was missing. I wasn't sure what had happened. but I took Alexander's dogtags and made believe the dead man was Moffitt to mislead them."

Hitchcock nodded. "So, Dietrich sent the body back to the British-" 

"As Moffitt's. I never heard anything different." 

"But this photo's supposed to be Alexander," Hitchcock argued. plucking it from his fingers and studying it. "She's a real doll!" 

"We know who the real Alexander is. His name's Pierson and he came out of Germany with us," Troy said flatly. "I don't know who the man was in North Africa but he was another ringer." 

"And Moffitt's playing Colonel Alexander?" 

Troy gave a short laugh. "Doesn't look too happy about it, does he?" 

Hitchcock shook his head. "Not at all. Sarge, not at all. Think we'll see him when we get to England?" 

“Yeah. When Pierson becomes Alexander again, then Moffitt will be himself," Troy said confidently. 

"He's an officer now. Maybe he likes it." 

"I'm sure they'll give him a commission as a reward." Troy bit into the onion. It was bitter and the bread stale, but it tasted like wonderful. "Let's get some rest, Hitch. We're probably going to need it." 

"Shall I keep watch?" Hitchcock asked.

"I'll take the first five hours. Get some sleep." 

Hitchcock looked doubtful but lay down in one corner of the room, his head pillowed on his still-damp bag, and fell asleep. 

Troy found himself licking up the crumbs on the table. He was still hungry. His gaze fell on the photograph and he picked it up. Hitchcock had nailed Moffitt's expression accurately. He also looked healthier than he had for a long time and the party looked like fun. Troy paced around the room several times carefully stepping over Hitchcock, and then went out into the shop. 

Leif was re-assembling the grandfather clock, but stopped when he saw his guest. He glanced out the window then back at Troy. 

Troy ignored the unspoken request, and wandered over towards the other two broken down clocks. He sat down on a tall stool behind the counter, out of the way but still able to see out the window, and stared into space. 

Suddenly, a hand dropped a brush in front of him, and a oil cloth. Leif waved to the carved wooden front of the clock next to Troy, then went back to his own work. Troy obeyed. He picked up the brush and began to gently clean the carved wood. His thoughts were miles away back in America. 

Time had always been against him. He remembered rushing through school to go hunting with his father, or to play football with his friends, or to get to his job at the factory so the family would have enough money to put his brother through high school after their father died. Troy hadn't ever considered going to college until Sheila dropped him for a college-trained engineer, and realized his lack of education was making him a loser in the eyes of the girls. He had done a year of college, hated it. and joined the Army. There he had found a real home, self-discipline and training, He had also found that a uniform was as good for getting girls as a sheepskin.

His fingers delicately probed the door to the cuckoo clock. It appeared jammed. Delicately, he pried at it. Nope, totally jammed. One more thing for Leif to fix. Troy probed with the edge of the brush getting the dirt out. 

In his three years in the Army, he seen it slowly rise from torpor and become a fighting machine. He had been surprised when he was assigned to a liaison duty going to North Africa. At that time, America was determinedly neutral, dead set against getting involved with 'Over There', and his assignment to be accomplished in as low-key a fashion as possible. 

He hadn't gotten along with the officers who led the party. Looking back now. he realized that his attitude of self-confidence had made them think he was arrogant. Maybe he had been. Troy had a feeling that America would be involved one way or another in the European 'war. Too many people had come from over here, and Roosevelt was pro-English, Reading in the newspapers about Germany's actions, Troy wondered when America would act. When he reached North Africa, and talked with soldiers and people from the occupied countries, he became dead-set against joining up with the Germans. Not that he would have any say in what President Roosevelt did in Washington, Troy was a soldier. He'd obey orders. 

The Japanese attack, after he was already in North Africa, had been a total shock. The declaration of war against Germany was almost a relief. Finally, he had a clear enemy, and Troy worked best when he had a goal. 

He had also made friends with the English commandos who made up ninety percent of the long-range patrols. One illicit mission with them, and Troy was sold on the concept. 

It had been that raid that got him tossed out of the role of 'liaison' and back into the war. The American officers had been totally outraged that he'd risked his life and acted against his neutral role, and told him to expect a court-martial. 

Troy finished dusting the front of the clock. He worried at the door again. He had to get it open to clean inside. 

The court-martial had been forgotten when the outpost at which he was attending a party was overrun by the Germans. Three months of captivity by Colonel Beckmann who had tortured him and the other captives led to an escape and promise to repay the Colonel the pleasure someday. That day had come, and now Beckmann was in a POW camp somewhere. Troy hoped he was suffering. 

He smothered his anger by taking a deep breath. Beckmann was long gone. 

When Troy rejoined the Allies, the Brits had overlooked the irregularity of having an American involved, and he'd been accepted into the long-range patrol group. The Brits were being driven back by Rommel; they didn't care about Troy's nationality, just that he could do the job. The original liaison group of Americans was replaced by more realistic men, and Troy had been given his jeeps, Hitchcock, Tully and one more man, and told to go 'make trouble'. Troy applied the brush to the door once more, digging the bristles under the door. In one place he felt something hard. That might be something blocking the spring mechanism that would bring out the cuckoo. 

The addition of Moffitt had been an incalculable bonus. Troy knew that he had been lucky to get the independence to operate as he had in the desert. He'd been very successful until that last day. 

That was why he was frustrated now. He could do nothing but wait and watch. It was foreign to his nature. Having too much time to think could lead to misgivings and weaknesses that could get them all killed. 

Something gave under his right hand, and the door popped open. The cuckoo almost hit him in the face, and he jerked back. 

A cascade of silver and rubies hit the table. 

Troy gaped. He glanced at Leif who was staring at him in disbelief. 

Instinctively, both men glanced out the window. Passing soldiers were talking with each other and not looking inside. If they had seen the necklace pop out, they would have broken down the door. 

With one sweeping gesture, Troy swept the jewelry down into his lap, out of sight. 

With his left hand. he felt inside the cavity behind the cuckoo. There was another necklace, what felt like the knobby edges of several rings, and some coins. Glancing outside. he saw the soldiers had moved on. 

He pulled the jewelry out. A piece of paper came with them. It was a photograph. 

An elderly woman sat in an ornate wooden chair, her son towering over her. Beside them was a young woman. From their clothing it was pre-World War 1. The older woman wore the ornate necklace in his lap, the younger one, one of the rings. Troy turned over the picture. "Mme. Goldschmidt. Aaron and Rebecca, 1904," he read under his breath. "Why is this stuff here?"' 

He put the jewelry in his lap and turned over the clock. The wooden back was slightly off on all the sides. By propping it against his legs. and the table, he balanced the clock safely while he pried open the glued back. 

From the corner of eye. he saw Leif's aghast expression, Troy wasn't sure why he was doing this, except that something drove him. Here was something he could do, something he could solve. This clock had a mystery to be solved. 

The wood panel came apart in two pieces. Inside, another clock was tightly wedged. Troy unconsciously caught his breath. Pulling gently, he took it out. The heavy brass tooling and silver inlay made it very heavy. He knew it had to be old. 

Probably an antique. Leif came over his body blocking the clock from view out the window. His gnarled hands drifted over the scrollwork edging on the glass face. 

Troy gently set the false-fronted clock to one side. He didn't know who the owner had been or how it came to have family heirlooms in it. The mystery would have to he solved by the old man in front of him or Goedhart or someone else who could track down the family in the picture. 

Slightly embarrassed. he saw a tear track down Leif's face. Troy tapped on the photograph, and raised an eyebrow. Leif nodded, his hands still on the clock. It started ticking and both men jumped. 

Troy spread his hands, asking a question. Leif shook his head and drew a finger across his throat. 

Dead. They were all dead. Troy's gaze went back to the jewelry in his lap. He assumed it belonged to Leif now. Troy felt helplessness sweep over him again. He hadn't felt like this since his father died. He hated the thought of families breaking up, being lost forever in the cracks of history. He remembered reuniting father and son in North Africa. Who cared if they were German, and the enemy? One of the hardest situations he'd ever faced was when he had to abandon Moffitt's father to the Germans. In the end, the Patrol had saved Moffitt and his father. There had been a slight chill on his relations with Moffitt until the war had swept them into another raid, then it had been forgotten. At least, Troy hoped it had been forgotten. Who could tell with Moffitt? 

Leif cleared his throat, making Troy jump, and held out his hand roughly four feet off the ground, then tapped on Rebecca's face. 

"A daughter?" Troy said with a feeling of relief. He held the necklace so that Leif could see it and the man nodded. 

A survivor for a lost family. Maybe. Who knew? Who would survive the end of this war? Troy bundled the jewelry into one hand and passed it over to Lief who slid it into an inside pocket, then added the photograph. He jerked his head towards the back room.

Troy obeyed reluctantly. Picking up the false clock, and the oil cloth he retreated to where Hitchcock was snoring on the cold linoleum, and began to polish. It gave him something to do in the long four and a half hours that still stretched out in front of him.


	5. Resolutions, freedom and memorials

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is rescue possible for everyone? Who is going to die off the coast of Norway?

NORWAY-April 1943 

When he reached his desk, Dietrich noticed his papers had been disarranged. They had never been displaced before. It was possible that they could have been moved during dusting. or they could have been riffled through in a search for secret information. He picked up the papers and checked. 

Orders for more weapons for transportation, for billeting for his troops. Nothing that was overly secret. Probably the same information was available on the street. It had to be the dusting. 

Replacing the forms, he hung his coat on the rack. His gaze swept the room. Little things were out of place. What had happened here? Going to the door, he opened it. Lieutenant Lipken was settling down at his desk, but sprang up sharply. "Herr Hauptmann?" 

"Ask Fraulein Sigrid to bring up some of that coffee," Dietrich ordered briskly. 

"Ja. Herr Hauptmann!" 

Dietrich slammed the door and went back to his coat. From one pocket he look out the picture, tossed it carelessly on one corner of the desk and sat down with the papers. 

They were his notes on the men captured on the wharf, including the sick man who had coughed the entire trip. Most had gone straight into the cells. The sick man had been deposited in the ward where a doctor had visited him, and prescribed some medicine. Dietrich had made sure that the man had gotten a blanket. He didn't deserve to be treated as a criminal. 

Stahl had been tipped off that Alexander was coming to Norway. How? Stahl's superiors in Berlin said he was coming out of Bergen on the ferry. One of the men had to be the elusive spy. 

He started as the doorknob rattled. He closed the file as Sigrid came in with a tray, coffee pot and a cup. 

She set it on the credenza. The white-dotted blue dress with the darned collar was faded, and her dark hair fell over her face, hiding her features. A pretty woman but not beautiful. Nothing like the blond goddess with Moffitt. Lucky Moffitt. 

"Thank you, Fraulein," he said taking the cup from her hand, then putting it down. "I have a question for you."

She flinched, but held her ground. 

Dietrich's mind noticed that she didn't cringe from him as she did from Lipken. The day his Lieutenant had been coarsely teasing her was the moment when he had decided that she needed protection, and to do that he had kept her in his service. 

"How are you tonight?" he asked. 

She licked her lips. “Fine, Herr Hauptmann," 

"Did you clean in here?”

Her eyes darted around. “Ja. I did everything, the windows, the curtains-" 

"The desk,” he asked, noting her reactions. 

She stared at him. "Just on the top." 

“And did you read the papers, Fraulein?" 

She started back. "Nei. Herr Hauptmann! I know better than that." 

"The papers weren't as I left them,” he said stepping between her and the door. He wondered what she would come up with as a reason. Another part of his mind hoped that she'd resolve his question as to whether she was a spy. 

Her skin went ashen. "The duster, it caught them, they fell, I tried to put them back, Herr Hauptmann. I swear!" 

She was getting paler by the second. _The papers hadn't been that out of order,_ he thought clinically. If she had dropped them on the floor, they would have been totally out of order. She had to have looked through them. He felt a vast weight slide off his shoulders. So, she was a spy. What now? 

"I understand, Fraulein. You did not read any of them?" he asked delicately.

She shook her head, terrified. "Nei, Herr Hauptmann." 

'That is good. Fraulein. I would hate to have to hand you over to Major Stahl." 

Her knees were shaking and she put out her hand to balance herself against the credenza. "Nei, Herr Dietrich." 

"I would hate to lose a good servant," he said picking up the coffee pot and pouring himself some coffee, It steamed in the cold of the room. “Please make sure that the next time your duster touches my papers that it doesn't disturb them?" 

"Ja, Herr Hauptmann." A faint tinge of color came back into her cheeks, and she stopped shaking. 

He held out the cup. "Will you have coffee with me?" 

She shrank back. "Herr Hauptmann?" 

"Or do you have a boyfriend who I am keeping you from?" he joked. 

She blushed. "Nei, Herr Hauptmann." 

Dietrich wondered if that was the truth, and decided it probably was. "Then drink with me, Sigrid. I am the only man standing between you and Major Stahl."

Her fingers shook on the cup. "This is your cup. Herr Hauptmann." 

"I have the one I used earlier," he said walking back to his desk and picking up the used cup. "It is getting warmer out there, Sigrid. Did you have fuel for the winter?" 

She watched him like a nervous deer. "Nei, Herr Hauptmann. I share a house with my mother. We had a smail stockpile for the winter. Now, we don't use it. Spring is coming." 

"It was a long winter," he said pensively pouring his own cup of coffee. "I hope spring doesn't bring more attacks on my troops. I dislike having to displace any more civilians." 

“Ja, Herr Hauptmann." She sipped tentatively at the coffee, then smiled. "They will try to stop you whatever you are doing. The attacks-" 

"I will stop them. The orders are to stop them," he said seriously. warning her. "They know this. Make them believe it, Sigrid." 

Her eyes showed apprehension and fear. "Me, Herr Hauptmann? I don't know any of them," 

His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Of course not. Just pass the word to your mother or the pastor or the shopkeepers. I cannot keep Stahl from taking over any situation he feels compelled to intervene in. He is Gestapo and the power in Germany is shifting towards them. You saw that he took the men we brought from Trondheim into his garrison." 

"Men?" She frowned. "You brought back men from Trondheim?" 

"We are tracking an English spy and arrested many men," he said, glancing at the newspaper picture. "When we find him, he will be sent to Berlin with Major StahL" 

She shuddered. "If he's alive, Herr Hauptmann." 

"Stahl will make sure he stays alive.” 

"I will pray for him." 

"Yes," he drawled, watching her closely. "I hope there is no attempt to free them, Fraulein. Major Stahl would deal with it very severely." 

She raised her brown eyes guilelessly. "Nei, Herr Hauptmann. If the Resistance is thinking of it, they would be fools. It is very dangerous there. There are too many soldiers." 

"And they kill people in the courtyard," Dietrich said brutally, setting down his cup. He hated the memories that came back every time he walked into Gestapo headquarters. The dead commandos whose bodies were God-knows-where now, the others who had vanished after talking with Stahl, the people still held in cells. The place was a charnel house filled with ghosts, and Dietrich's soul was revolted. "That is all, Fraulein." 

She lingered. holding the cup. "Herr Hauptmann?" 

"Ja?" 

"Why are you telling me this?" 

He smiled wryly. "I don't have anyone else to tell, Sigrid, Maybe it will do some good," 

"Herr Hauptmann?" 

"Ja?" 

"Do not trust Lieutnant Lipken," Sigrid said in a rush. "I have seen him in the desk drawers there." 

"My desk drawers?" Dietrich eyed her. "When was this?" 

"Today, Herr Hauptmann." Her eyes went to the Alexander folder. "He was reading that. He put some papers in his pocket." 

"Did he see you?" Dietrich asked, 

"Nei, Herr Hauptmann. I opened the door, then I closed it but he heard. When he came out, he was furious but said nothing. I think he thought I did not see him." 

"Thank you, Fraulein Sigrid." 

"Thank you, Herr Hauptmann." She fled out the door, closing it behind her, the coffee cup still in her hand. 

He poured himself another cup, then went back to window. Looking over the city he saw the night sky was full of stars glittering like silver dust over the neighboring low building. For a second he could almost believe that he wasn't part of an occupying army but was a welcomed visitor. He had always loved to camp outdoors, North Africa had been a wonderful place to watch the night skies. More often here. the skies were full of clouds. Not today, though. A guard walked along the edge of the building opposite him shattering the illusion. He watched as the man went out of sight. 

He turned back to the desk, and the bullet missed him by inches. smashing the cup in his hand. The spray of glass sliced his uniform and face. Blood flowed down his cheekbone as he fell back against the wall next to the windows. A second bullet cut into the jacket, and through his right shoulder. His shoulder felt shattered and numb. 

_I should have remembered about the snipers,_ he thought, feeling himself slip towards darkness. Dimly, he heard Lipken come into the room and start yelling for the guards. _I wonder if they were Norwegian or Gestapo?_

 

NORWAY-April 1943 

Moffitt splashed over the side of the dinghy and helped Tully pull it up onto the beach. A third man, introduced only as Lars, helped to drag it to a secluded spot by the mountains. 

The malacca which had brought them over sailed out of sight over the horizon returning to England. It had been dangerous to bring in the commandos in the daytime but a desperate message from Norway had forced their hand.

Moffitt, Tully and Lars had been fully briefed on the mishap with Alexander. Only the fact that they had basically been on their way, and that the Resistance had said there was a chance of rescue, had made the mission go forward. 

The Norwegian underground was going to meet them here, and hopefully the underground would have more up-to-date information since all they knew was that something had gone wrong, and that Pierson was in the hospital.

Tully shivered. Rain swept regularly over the bow of the boat, soaking through his dark calf-length coat, the bottom of his pants and the dark shoes. With Lars' help, he had memorized a number of Norwegian phrases, but knew that he would never speak the language. Moffitt's German and Lars' native tongue would be what got them in and out. Tully's job was to make sure that his partner had backup. He was relegated to being muscle but he was comfortable with that. He had been that before. 

Studying Lars for a second, he wondered what was going on behind the impassive face. The lanky Norwegian hadn't said a word the entire trip, just watched them covertly. Tully couldn't read the other man's face. He made Moffitt look like the most open person in the world. _What is Lars part in this mission other than getting Pierson out? To kill them all?_

“Over there," Lars whispered unexpectedly, and pointed at man who was watching them. “Come." 

Tully brought up the rear as Moffitt headed over to their contact. This was the tense part of the trip, the first meeting with the Underground and the potential for a German trap. No matter how many times Tully had done it, he was always nervous. He didn't let it show. 

There was muttering, laughter, then Moffitt beckoned. It was all right. 

The three men who were waiting for them were nondescript. All had the thin pinched faces of the slightly-hungry, and the worn coats and patched shoes of the occupied nations. They drove the commandos to an abandoned mine in a truck with threadbare tires. 

Moffitt turned up the collar of his coat against the snap of the brisk, salt-laden wind. The air was coming in off the gunmetal grey North Sea. The glacier-carved mountains rose directly from the stony beaches with only slight paths cut among the towering cliffs. The valleys were swathed in mist. Tully could smell more rain on the air. 

Climbing down from the truck, they followed two men into the mine past a guard hidden in the rocks. He saluted as they passed. Tully saluted back and the man grinned. Inside, another fighter let down the canvas door flap. The passage was very dark with only the flickering of a lamp at the opposite end. They walked down 'til they came into an open area where a table with a small dish of noisome oil with a wick provided the only light. 

An older man, maybe fifty, rose to greet them. "God dag," he said briskly. "I am Roger." 

“Good day," Moffitt replied briskly. "I'm Sergeant Moffitt, and this is Private Pettigrew. What more information do you have for us regarding Colonel Alexander?" 

Roger tapped on the map, It was ancient by any standards, dating back to the turn of the century, grimy, crumpled and smelled like it had been 'wrapped around a fish or two in its time. "He is being held in Susevend,” he explained. His finger traveled a path to a small city outside of Narvik. It abutted the mountains.

"So they know who he is?" Moffitt asked sharply. 

Roger shook his head. "NeL They rounded up many men. Apparently some of the other men were also illegally in Norway, and Major Stahl has decided to investigate them at his leisure. The colonel is ill and hasn't been questioned yet according to our contact.' 

"Stahl?" Moffitt questioned. 

"An ambitious Gestapo bureaucrat who wants to rise in the Reich," Roger said with rich contempt. "Mostly through murdering civilians and commandos." 

"Murdering commandos? He's done this before?" Moffitt asked. 

"Ja. Another group landed a month ago and was caught. Major Stahl had them shot before the local Wehrmacht officer could intervene." 

"That wouldn't make him happy." 

"Nei," the man laughed. 'Still, Hauptmann Dietrich has prevented them from-" 

"Dietrich?" Tully said in spite of himself. "Sarge ... ." 

Moffitt's lips curled up. "It's a common German name, Tully. It'd be too much of a coincidence if he was ours." 

"Hauptmann Dietrich is a reasonable man," Roger conceded. "Unfortunately, he was attacked in his office two days ago and has been in the hospital at Gestapo headquarters. Since then, Major Stahl has taken charge of the city. It is doubly dangerous there now. I'm afraid you wasted your time coming here, Sergeant." 

"Attacked? By whom?" Moffitt asked. "Your men?" 

Roger raised his shoulders in a shrug. "Not by any of my men, nei. I have asked around but no one claims the attack. The Germans have arrested many people but they have found nothing." 

"Wonderful," Tully muttered, his hand going to his belt where a pistol hung. "Sarge, this is not going to be easy." 

"What about Colonel Alexander?" Moffitt asked again. 

The man tapped on the city. "One of our doctors, Goedhart, has been able to tend to him. Alexander is too ill to be interrogated. He will be questioned in a couple of days when he has recovered enough to speak." 

Moffitt nodded. "Any way we can get into that hospital?" 

“Sigrid?” The leader beckoned and a shawl-wrapped woman stepped out of the shadows. Her hands were shaking. She stopped and stared at Moffitt. Her mouth opened. 

"What is it?"" he asked, disturbed by her expression. 

"You ... you look like the picture," she stuttered. 

"The picture?" He glanced at the leader who shrugged and spread his hands. "What picture?" 

"They have a picture of Colonel Alexander in uniform. It looks like you." 

"When was it taken?"' Moffitt asked glancing at Tully. 

“I don't know, sir. Hauptmann Dietrich had it on his desk." 

“It looks like me?" Moffitt said incredulously. 

"That newspaper picture, Sarge," Tully cut in. "The Germans would have had time to get it over here." 

"Partridge probably brought it over himself," Moffitt said dryly. “Well, I'll have to keep a low profile. What can you tell us about Gestapo headquarters?”

She spread her hands. "It was built like a small chateau, Herr Sergeant. Goedhart says he's is on the ground level in the infirmary ward but kept apart from any others. Hauptmann Dietrich is in a private room further down the hall. The offices are upstairs, and the cells where people are kept are downstairs." Her voice shook, then she took a deep breath. "The men who are left from the roundup are down there still.”

"So they haven't questioned him yet?" Moffitt asked. 

"Nei, not up to today. Maybe. With Stahl, who knows?" 

"Tell me about more about the building," Moffitt asked as he studied the woman. 

"It is built like a square without a fourth side. A iron fence surrounds the chateau and the guards pace back and forth," she said, gesturing with her hands. “There is a courtyard usually full of trucks or the Major's automobiles." 

Roger eyed her. "Can you draw us a map. Sigrid?"" 

She pulled a sketch out of her shawl. “I knew you would need this," she said proudly and laid it on the table. 

"We'll have to think about this," Roger said soberly. "It will be very dangerous to get him out of the headquarters. I am not sure we have enough men to do it." 

"We have to get him out," Moffitt said flatly. "They expect him back in London for tea." 

"Herr Sergeant, be careful and don’t kill anyone," she pleaded, desperately, clutching her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "The Germans will shoot ten men for every soldier we kill. They destroyed a town because they were ambushed. Stahl has not yet decided what to do about Hauptmann Dietrich's attack. The Hauptmann has tried to stop any retaliation but he is still unwell, and his second-in-command, Lipken is taking orders from Stahl." 

'"This Lipken is taking orders from the Gestapo? I'm sure his superiors don't approve," Moffitt muttered. "If he gets in the way-" 

"They'll kill us all if you touch him or anyone else," she said, leaning forward to touch Moffitt's hand. "Can't you do it without getting everyone killed?" 

Moffitt flicked a glance at the leader who shook his head. "We'll try. If we get him free, we'll need to disappear into the mountains. Can you do that?" 

Roger nodded. "We can distract the Germans but not for too long. Your boat will be back in four days." 

"That's our window of opportunity, then," Moffitt said with a nod of approval. 

"There is one more thing," Roger said. "Alexander had friends on his trip from Germany." 

"What do you mean?" Moffitt demanded. 

"Two men accompanied him out of the POW camp, or so they say, They said they were commandos before they were caught." 

"Commandos?" 

"Ja. Two American commandos. They tried to help Alexander when he was picked up by the Gestapo according to Goedhart. They were planning to rescue him themselves but we intercepted them and brought them here." 

"Who are these commandos?" Moffitt questioned sharply. "They're here?" 

Roger waved, and a man disappeared further back into the mine. "I will have them brought out.” 

Two men came stumbling out of the back, both looking tense. They stopped dead when they saw the group around the table. 

"Troy?" Moffitt's voice broke in sheer disbelief. His jaw dropped. 

Troy looked equally stunned. He rocked back on his heels, then he smiled. His eyes glinted with amusement. "Moffitt!" 

Behind him, Hitchcock laughed in sheer relief. Tully's grin broadened. He put his hands on his hips and shook his head in disbelief. 

"How's it going, Hitch?" he called. 

Moffitt laughed, and held out his hand. Troy shook it firmly, then clapped him on the arm. Neither could stop grinning. "Nice to see you again, Troy! You're looking a little thinner." 

"Haven't been living off the fat of the land like you have, 'Colonel'," Troy retorted. 

"You know each other?" the Norwegian leader asked delicately. 

"We served in the same unit in North Africa," Moffitt explained, turning to the other man. "Troy, were you the ones who got Alexander out of that POW camp?" 

"More like the other way around," Troy said wryly. ''I'll explain later. You're the ones who are supposed to take Pierson out?”

"That's right," Moffitt agreed. "Though we've run into a bit of a problem." 

"Need some help?" Troy asked. 

Moffitt grinned. "Glad to accept.” 

The old relationship between the four men snapped back into place as if nothing had ever happened to break it. Troy and Moffitt turned to the map. Tully hit Hitchcock in the arm affectionately, noticing the lines which imprisonment had carved in the young man's face. Hitch had aged over the last seven months. 

"You say this Stahl's got Alexander in the headquarters," Moffitt started. "In the infirmary ward on the main floor." 

Sigrid's gaze went from man to man in bewilderment. Finally, she nodded. "The guards surround the building inside the brick walls. The Germans are there all the time." She smiled faintly. "I must go back to the city soon, Roger." 

Roger nodded understandingly. "He does not suspect you, Sigrid?" 

"I don't think so, " she said with a giggle. "I think he likes the fact that he no longer gets fish at every breakfast." 

"They filled you in, eh?" Troy said chuckling. 

"Told me what?" 

"That Dietrich's in town." 

"Dietrich ... then it is our Dietrich?" Tully asked incredulously. 

"That's right," Hitchcock cut in, grinning broadly. "He's lost weight too. Must be the fish diet." 

Moffitt shook his head in disbelief, and ran his hand through his dark curly hair. "Who would believe that we'd all end up here seven months later?" 

"Dietrich had better not find out we're here," Troy warned. "Otherwise we'll never get Pierson out of Gestapo HQ. He knows us too well." 

"Got a plan?" Moffitt asked looking up. "Have you seen the building?" 

Troy shook his head. "No. Still, we should be able to get him out one way or another." 

"We have to do it with a minimum of killing, preferably none," Moffitt said. glancing at Sigrid. who nodded. "They shoot ten civilians for one German." 

Troy looked thoughtfully at the map, then gave a slight shrug. "We'll try. Have you got a plan?" 

"I have to go," Sigrid interrupted. She pulled a map out of the shawl and left it on the table. "I will report later, Roger." 

"Ja. Adjc!" the man called as she hurried up the mine shaft. 

"Troy. We must talk," Moffitt said urgently. He looked at Roger who was eyeing them suspiciously. "Alone." 

"Agreed," Troy said. 

"Where?" Moffitt glanced at Roger. "Where can we talk?"

He waved to farther down the shaft. "There is a small tunnel where you can sit and talk. Take a lamp. I will call you when I get more information, Sergeant." 

One of the guards held out a lantern, and Moffitt took it. "Come on, Hitch, Tully, Troy." 

Tully brought up the rear, wondering what Moffitt was up to. They settled in a loose circle. The only light was the lamp Moffitt set in the middle. His dark cap was festooned with cobwebs from the beams that braced the tunnel. "Where do you want to start?" Moffitt asked Troy. 

''Tell me about Alexander." 

"What happened to you in North Africa?"' Troy replied. "Why are you here?" 

Moffitt sat thoughtfully, then began to explain. "I awoke in the front seat of the jeep ..."

NORTH AFRICA-October 1942 

His head had hurt as if it had been battered like a tennis ball. Opening his eyes, Moffitt found he was being jolted along the dusty ground in the back seat of a jeep. The outline of his machine gun was silhouetted against the bright sunlight. and, from the light, he knew he hadn't been unconscious for that long. 

With a groan, he tried to sit up, and gave a muted scream. His shoulder and his back were in agony. He bounced over a rock and saw little black spots for a second. 

Looking around, he saw the back of a German uniform in the seat in front of him. The man turned his head and Moffitt recognized the profile of Felix, the disaffected officer. He looked terrified. 

His gaze went to the driver and saw bright red hair. Partridge? 

Moffitt groaned and the jeep slowed down, finally stopping in the shadow of the cliffs. 

"Colonel?" Partridge called. "Colonel Alexander?" He skewed around in his seat and let out a curse. "You!"

Felix half-turned and offered a water bottle. "Would you like a drink, whoever you are?" 

Moffitt pulled himself shakily to an upright position, avoiding moving his shoulder if he didn't have to. "Yes. I would." 

"Sergeant Moffitt! Where's the Colonel?"' Partridge snarled, then stared at Felix. "You said it was the colonel!" 

"You didn't know it was me?" Moffitt asked watching him intently. 

Partridge shook his head in disgust. "Not a chance. Sarge. I thought I grabbed Alexander in the mixup!" 

"Who are you?" Felix squeaked, 

Moffitt shook his head. "Sergeant Jack Moffitt. Eighth Army." 

"Damn, damn, damn," Partridge cursed. He turned in his seat and faced the hills. "Damn it all!" 

"Where are the others?” Moffitt asked, looking around. The jeep was coated with sand, and that it was thick on the floor. His clothes sifted sand every time he moved, which he tried to avoid doing. 

"Captured, Sergeant," Felix said tensely. 

"We were the only ones to escape." 

"Damn it," Partridge said under his breath. Moffitt knew he wasn't referring to Troy or the others. "All of them?” 

“Ja. Hauptmann Dietrich's column came over the hill just after you attacked but the storm slowed them down or they would have caught us all," Felix explained, calming down. "Someone must have told them of the attack.”

"It was an ambush, then," Moffitt asked crisply. His attention was still on Partridge, who was sitting with his lips firmly pressed together. 

Felix nodded. "Ja, but the storm was unexpected. I am glad that we escaped." He fumbled inside his uniform jacket and pulled out some papers. "I have the codes here." 

"I’ll take those," Partridge said unexpectedly. 

He was cut off by Moffitt who held out his hand. "I'll hold them 'til we reach HQ," he cut in, eyeing Partridge. "How is the gasoline, Lieutenant?" 

"Pretty good," the man said biting off his words. "But I'm lost." 

"Lost?" "Lost?" Felix echoed Moffitt. 

"These damn cliffs all look alike, Sargeant." 

Moffitt looked around. "There's a map under your seat where Hitch put it. Get it," he directed Felix, who reached under and brought up the tattered paper. "Spread it out. Which way did you go, Partridge?" His vision was blurry. Moffitt wasn't sure how much longer he'd be conscious. 

The man pointed. "North. Then west. Into these cliffs." 

Moffitt nodded and regretted it as a pain shot down his back. "Keep going for twenty miles. You'll find a crossroad here, in the hills, and turn right there, It’s very tight but we can get through. Then keep going for fifteen miles. You'll come out near the main supply route for our troops." 

"If we're where we should be," Partridge said pessimistically. 

"Wake me when we get to the first crossroads," Moffitt ordered, sinking back, His vision was sparkling around the edges, and he felt his back spasm. "Stop worrying and get moving!" 

"Yes, sir!" Partridge said with biting sarcasm and started the jeep with a jolt. Moffitt didn't feel it. He was already unconscious in the back seat. 

NORWAY-April 1943 

"He awakened me at the crossroads and it was the right way. We made HQ two days later and handed Felix over to them. They were astonished to see me alive," Moffitt explained. "Dietrich had buried Alexander's body as mine. Don't know how since the dog tags-" 

"I took them off him," Troy cut in. "Lost them in the sand." 

"Ah," Moffitt pursed his lips and nodded. "In its infinite wisdom HQ turned me into Colonel Alexander and sent me back to England." 

"Partridge is a traitor," Troy said flatly. "Alexander says he turned him into the Germans back in France." 

Moffitt let out a sigh. "That's what Williams suspected but we had no proof. Partridge has escaped. We don't know where he is now. Alexander's confirmation will put a target on the man. No mercy if he's caught." 

"He escaped, eh?" Troy said reflectively. "Wonder where he's headed?" 

"'Suspect he knows Alexander's alive, Sarge," Tully cut in. 

"Then he could be on his way here," Hitchcock said unexpectedly. 

Moffitt shrugged. "Check the hall. Tully." 

"Yes, sir." He went out to the dark hall and saw the light at one end where the Norwegians were talking quietly. Looking the other way it was pitch black. "Nothing. Sarge.”

"Intelligence doesn't care if Partridge lives or dies," Moffitt said succinctly looking at Troy and Hitchcock. "They want Alexander alive. If Partridge shows up, we can put an end to him, but we aren't to go looking. And, Troy." 

“Yes?" 

"I have orders to prevent Alexander from talking," Moffitt added uncomfortably.

"I made him a promise." Troy looked into the flame, then held a hand over it. His fingers looked cold but Tully wondered if it was more than physical warmth he was looking for. "Alexander, that is," 

"What promise?" 

"I told him I’d kill him before I let the Gestapo break him. I couldn't stop them on the docks." 

Momentarily. Moffitt looked shocked. Then he nodded, understanding. "Then we'd better get him out alive because I have no desire to be Colonel Alexander any longer than necessary, and I don't fancy shooting myself." 

"He's a good man," Troy replied firmly. "A good man," 

“!'m hungry," Tully broke in. "Didn't they say there was food?" 

"Yes, I believe you're right," Moffitt said getting to his feet and dusting his pants. "How about you, Troy? Hungry?” 

Troy grinned. "As long as it isn't onions. No more onions." 

"Nightmares, eh, Sarge?" Hitchcock laughed. 

"You must tell us your story now," Moffitt said leading the way, "Especially about how you met Colonel Alexander and ended up in Norway!"' 

"It's a long story, I’Il tell you later." 

They rejoined Roger, who had folded up his map. The table was laid for five. 

"What's that?" Hitchcock asked inquisitively, seeing several larger dishes set in the middle. 

Roger smiled proudly, "Sursild. You place it on flatbr0d," The bite·sized pieces of herring smelled unappetizing to the newcomers but all four politely tried it. Hitchcock choked, and reached for his glass. The sour cream was overly sour, 

"We also have boiled potatoes with a soup," Roger said watching their expressions as they swallowed. "That is coming." 

Tully looked relieved. ''I'll take that. Fish has never been my favorite," 

Roger's lips twitched but he didn't laugh, Tully knew he had to be amused. "Then we will not bring out the lutefisk." 

"Bit too much for my stomach," Hitchcock commented apologetically. "I'll take some bread." 

"Do you have a plan, Moffitt?" Troy asked, ignoring the byplay. 

Moffitt looked at Roger. "How many men do you have available?" 

"Ten or more. That place is a fortress. Only the Gestapo go in and out of it." 

"If we wait 'til they move him, they'll have to use a truck," Troy said slowly, his eyes narrowing. "Full of guards. Lot of guards coming and going. You said the second·in-command was in charge?" 

Moffitt grinned. "Hopefully, he's not as well organized as Dietrich. Roger, do you have any Gestapo uniforms?" 

Roger was puzzled. His gaze went from man to man. "What are you talking about?"

"At least five of them," Troy added. "Moffitt, you can't come in with us." 

"Troy!" 

"They have a picture of you, Moffitt!" Troy cut him off. "Stahl had a picture when they were looking for Pierson on the docks. You can't come inside. They'll recognize you." 

“I’Il drive," Moffitt said stubbornly. His gaze met Troy's and the American knew he wasn't going to win this battle. 

"Then you'll just need a guard's uniform. Got any?" Troy said looking at Roger. 

"You plan to bluff them? Get yourself inside to get Alexander out?" Roger said in dawning apprehension. "Are you crazy?" 

"Can you come up with a better plan? We can do it now before anything else happens." 

"So we hit them now. Tonight," Moffitt said crisply. "After supper. Do you have the uniforms?" 

Roger shrugged. "I will check. Will you need my fighters?" 

"Yeah," Troy answered. "Outside the gate to provide cover if anything goes wrong." 

"If we get that far," Tully commented under his breath, "What the hell, I should have died seven months ago." 

"And I did," Moffitt added with a slight smile. "It's worth the risk, Troy." 

"Right. Where's that map?" 

 

Dietrich finished buttoning his shirt over the bandage. His right arm hurt but the cumbersome bandages around his left hand made buckling his bell very difficult. The slick leather kept sliding out of his hands. He had dismissed Lipken after the Lieutenant brought him a fresh uniform. Dietrich knew he was a Gestapo informant and didn't want to be in the same room with him. 

He brushed back his hair, and sighed. The barren room was uninspiring. Why had Stahl overreacted this way? This wasn't the first lime that Dietrich had been shot and the wound had been minor. He had had pain, yes, but that passed. He felt a lot worse being cooped up in Gestapo headquarters than he would have been in a hospital. 

He walked unsteadily towards the door, and opened it with his right hand. Taking a deep breath, and standing straight to hide the shakiness, he marched into the corridor. His luck had failed him again. The voice corning down the hallway belonged to Stahl. 

"Ah, Hauptmann Dietrich,” Stahl said ebulliently, his voice bouncing off the walls and straight to Dietrich's headache. "Care to join me?" 

"Honored, Herr Major. What is going on?" 

Stahl smiled smugly. "I told you that he would be arriving soon. Mourning Dove is here." 

"Here!" Dietrich was jolted. "That was a fast trip from America." 

"Ja. Berlin is aware that we need him here to identify Colonel Alexander, so he was sent right here, I had him brought to my office." 

Dietrich wondered what Stahl was going to say when he heard Dove's tale, It was almost worth not swallowing the painkiller the doctor had left him, He knew it would knock him out. "I am very interested. Major." 

"Then come along." They marched into the office. The two soldiers flanking the door stiffened into a salute, which they returned. "You may leave," Stahl said arrogantly. 

Lipken stood as did the stranger. The man's shaved head was covered by red stubble probably a week or two old. Dietrich stared at the civilian who eyed him with disinterest, and ignored Lipken's salute. "Who is this?" 

"Our spy from America!" Stahl said. "Mourning Dove, this is Captain Hans Dietrich." 

"You know Alexander?" Dietrich asked in a doubtful tone. "How?" 

"I was with him in France when you Germans tried to capture him," the man replied. "I thought he was dead in the mountains 'til I saw a cable. If he's alive, then I'm dead, Captain. I decided to get out of Allied territory.”

"Sounds like they were suspicious of you." Dietrich said. 

Partridge said, “'Maybe. Maybe nol. I can't go back there after this." 

"You will go to Berlin with Alexander," Stahl said firmly. "My superiors would wish to talk with you." 

Dietrich thought that Partridge had other plans, but he simply nodded. 

"May I come along?" Dietrich asked, falling a step behind them as they went on. "I would like to meet the notorious Colonel Alexander." 

"Notorious?"' Partridge called flippantly.

“Certainly. I have read the reports from France, He is an excellent spy," Dietrich said suavely. 

The back of Partridge's neck turned red, "He's a menace to us all. Damn British secret service! Maybe you'll believe him even if you didn't believe me." 

"Didn't believe you?" Stahl asked puzzled at the bitter tone. 

"For believing that Alexander had died in France and that the British were running impostors?" Dietrich asked, noting Stahl's annoyance, He felt a little better for scoring the point. 

Partridge's eyes widened. "You knew? How did you know, Hauptmann Dietrich?" 

“The man in the picture is not forty-one, Herr Dove." 

"Partridge, The name is Partridge," he said in a surly voice.

"Then why didn't you tell Berlin. Herr Hauptmann!" 

"We just received that photograph several days ago," Stahl said acidly. Dietrich couldn't tell who he was more annoyed with, Partridge or himself. "Then who is this man?" 

"His name is Sergeant Moffitt-" 

"Sergeant Jack Moffitt-" Partridge overran Dietrich's voice. He stopped and stared at him. "You know him, Captain Dietrich?'" 

"He was one of my most persistent problems in North Africa," Dietrich said dryly, "He and his comrades, I believe you met them, Herr Partridge.”

Partridge snorted in disgust. "The Rat Patrol. A fancy name for two sergeants, two privates and a pair of jeeps!"' 

"They were a considerable hazard seven months ago," Dietrich added. "This is the same team that harassed the Afrika Korps until the general staff put a price on their heads! They were very well-trained and dedicated." 

"Yeah, well, a couple of them are still around. I left them in Washington," Partridge retorted. "My plan to knock off Moffitt failed. I had lousy help," 

Dietrich almost cheered but hid his reaction. He wouldn't mind shooting Moffitt in a fair fight but nothing about this was fair. "I hope he is recovered from his time in hospital in North Africa?" 

Partridge stared at him in wonderment. "You figured that out too, Hauptmann?" 

“Why don't you tell us what happened after the raid. Herr Partridge?" Dietrich ignored Stahl's impatience, He was curious to find out what had kept Partridge from coming back to Germany right after the failed raid. 

 

NORTH AFRICA -October 1942 

It took two days to reach the same dusty town where they had started the raid. They had had to hide for a night while the Germans searched the area. Partridge was thoroughly fed up with both his companions. If he had the nerve, he'd shoot Moffitt and dump the body by the road, and take Felix back to the German lines. but the Englishman kept waking up at odd intervals. The loquacious Felix had spilled all the information he was supposed to give to Colonel Alexander, and Partridge had no doubt that Moffitt would remember it. 

Besides, he didn't know where he was going. The one time he saw a half-track it was in the distance and he wasn't prepared to kill Moffitt. He would still have to drag Felix back, and the other man had a gun too. It was a stalemate. 

When they finally drove into town, they found it crowded with troops. tanks and ammunition. What had been a sleepy oasis was now a boomtown. _They're going attack,_ Partridge realized in horror. _If I had gone back to the Germans. we'd have been overrun in days._

"What's this?" a suspicious officer asked, looking at Felix, who had his hands behind his head, the pallid Moffitt in the back seat and Partridge. 

"Colonel Ramsey," Moffitt called faintly, stirring. He rose painfully. "Get Colonel Ramsey." 

"Brett, you and Ken keep an eye on these blokes," the officer called and went inside. Three minutes later, he came running out. "The Colonel wants to see you all inside right now." 

"'Fraid that won't happen," Moffitt said. He climbed out of the back seat, and swayed dangerously. Felix automatically put out a hand to help, then stopped as Ken aimed his gun at him, "Partridge, you report. Tell them ... what happened.. " He collapsed on the ground. 

Hours later, after giving the Colonel an expurgated report of what happened, and seeing Felix disappear into the bowels of the Allied headquarters, Partridge was assigned to a room. Ramsey ordered him to Cairo the next day to explain everything to the High Command.

Glancing out the windows, Partridge thought about how disgusting the situation was. Maybe if he could get downstairs, he could use the radio to tell the Germans about the upcoming attack. Also, to tell them that the British were running ringers as 'Colonel Alexander.' The damned man was dead in France, dammit! 

Sliding out of his room, he went to the stairs and paused. 

Running feet. Loud voices. Cocking his head, he heard the roar of a tank, then the solid boom of artillery. Too late. If the Germans didn't know about it by now, they would in moments. Going back to his room, he looked into the sky. Explosive bursts and smoke obscured the skies. It was the finest fireworks display he had seen in years. The British Eighth Army was attacking EI Alamein with all they had. 

Partridge sat on his cot and cursed his luck. 

Months later, he was doing the same all over again, but he was a lot colder. Canada was snowier than usual that winter, and he prayed that somehow he could wangle a transfer to warmer climes, The English had retaken Tobruk in January and were heading to link up with the Americans under their General Eisenhower. He was teaching up-and-coming commandos how to fight dirty, and use communication equipment. The few times he'd had leave, he'd gone into town to drink beer, play pool, and to mail letters with carefully encoded messages. 

"Partridge!" 

"Yes. sir!" Partridge was carefully respectful to Captain Smith who ran the school, though really he disliked the man. Smith returned the emotion. 

He held out a set of orders. "You've been reassigned. Lieutenant." 

"Really, sir?" He couldn't help the tinge of relief in his voice. 

Smith grinned. "I know how you feel. Parlridge. It must be hard after fighting all that time to be here teaching." 

"Yes, sir." Partridge unfolded the sheets of paper. "Washington?" 

"Yes. You've been assigned to the Embassy there for a little while. I believe you're be detailed to work with an officer that you've met before." 

"Sir?" 

"A Colonel Alexander. He's being assigned down there." 

Partridge saw red. What the hell was Smith talking about? Alexander was dead, dead. dead, and so was the double they'd tossed at him in North Africa. "Colonel Alexander, sir?" 

“Yes. Better get packed. The plane leaves in four hours.”

Reaching Washington, he wasn't impressed by the rickety temporary buildings going up on the Mall next to the squat White House. The people were loud and boisterous, and there were too many black people for him to be comfortable. At the Embassy, the officials welcomed him and assigned him a room in one of the outer buildings, but basically he had to wait until 'Colonel Alexander' arrived. Whoever he was. 

He whiled away the time flirting with the delectable Arabella who wasn't interested in him, making Lieutenant Archer jealous, and trying to pick up tidbits to pass on to the Germans. 

One warm day in early March, he went down to listen to the concert played on the Watergate Barge, and found himself picked up by a beautiful blond who dropped her purse at his feet. 

She pouted as he picked up her bag, then batted her eyelashes. He was instantly interested, He might get somewhere with her. "Shall we sit together?" he asked, waving to where he was going to sit. There was room for two if they sat close together, "I would really rather have a drink," she said coyly, and slid her arm through his, "I know a place." 

"Then let's go," he replied. They walked away from the crowds and took a tram out of the City. His suspicions grew as they got farther and farther into the countryside, Where was she taking him? It wasn't as if she could hurt him; he could break her in half with a twist of his arm.

Finally, she pulled the rope and the tram stopped to let them off. Looking around he saw nothing but a few small houses, black in the night, and lots of barren trees, The tram rumbled off into the cold darkness, and he shivered. After night fell, winter was still in the air. 

"What is this?" he asked, looking around. A bird broke from the dark trees, shaking the naked branches and cawing, and he jumped, He caught her wrist and pulled her against him. "No drinks?"

"Your letters were received, Mourning Dove," she said, raising her chin, her tone professional. Moonlight glistened off her blond hair, and perfect white teeth. "But Berlin demands proof of your accusation. All the other information about Colonel Alexander that says he's now in England, and doing quite well.”

Partridge cursed luridly. She tried to stepped back but he held her firmly, "That isn't Alexander! That's an imposter!" 

"You must be able to prove it," she said indifferently. "Our agent in London says that the colonel will be arriving soon in Washington." 

“I’ve been hearing that for a month,” Partridge shot back. "He doesn't come." 

"Unless you can provide proof, Lieutenant, they will believe London." She shrugged, and he was momentarily distracted. Beautiful girl.

"Otherwise, I'm not getting paid, is that it?" Partridge fumed, "What proof do they want?" 

"A photograph, perhaps? Something that shows the truth." 

He slammed his hand against one of the trees. The frozen bark left ridges on his palm. She flinched. "Then I'll get you your goddamn photograph, How do I reach you?" 

She smiled coyly. "I believe we should meet at the Watergate concert next week where I found you today. The other information you have sent is very helpful. Lieutenant." 

"Those tidbits from the Embassy? Then they got through?" 

"Yes, and were much appreciated. I will be your new contact. My name is Mary." 

He eyed her and thought that he couldn't do better. "How much contact do you want to have?"

She laughed. "Once a week on Sundays after church? Let's go to the house over there. Lieutenant. We can get a drink there .... " 

"Only a drink?" he said. his voice rough with desire. 

Mary eyed him boldly, and smiled. "To start with." 

Their meetings had gone off like clockwork. Every Sunday they chose a new spot. Even in a crowded Washington, there was always a quiet place for lovemaking and espionage. He never understood what she got out of it, but he didn't care. Several times he met her partner, a tall man of few words. but most of the time it was just her. 

Then one day he came back from a walk and found Archer waiting for him in the entrance hall. "There you are," the trim officer called. "We wondered where you had gone!" 

"Yes, Lieutenant?" Partridge saluted. 

"Colonel Alexander is here. Arrived several hours ago." 

"Where's he now?" Partridge looked around, and winked at Arabella. She averted her gaze. 

"Upstairs," Archer said frostily. "Second floor bedroom." 

Partridge saluted again and climbed the curving staircase. He knocked on the first door. 

"Come in." 

That voice sounded familiar. Partridge twisted the knob and went inside. 

The straight back, the curly black hair, the long fingers. He knew this man in the Colonel's dress uniform. "Sergeant Moffitt!" 

Moffitt looked around and his expression was appalled. "Lieutenant Partridge?" 

"Where is Colonel Alexander?" 

"I'm he," Moffitt replied. '"What are you doing here?" 

"I…I’m assigned here," Partridge stuttered, His mind whirled in circles. What the hell was he going to tell Berlin? "To serve with Colonel Alexander." 

"Then I guess we'll be working together," Moffitt said briskly. "First of all can you tell me where the W.C. is?" 

"Down the hall, sir. Ah. Sergeant." 

"No, I'm the Colonel now, and you address me as Sir," Moffitt cut him off coldly. "We must not ruin the illusion, Lieutenant.”

Like hell. I shouldn't! "Yes, sir."

"I am going out to dine with the Ambassador. I'm not sure what my assignment is yet, Leftenant. but I'm sure that I'll find out before the week is out. Dismissed." 

Partridge saluted. His overwhelming thought was to get free of the Embassy and get the word to Mary. Maybe somehow they could set up to take a picture of the imposter. 

Later that evening he walked through the lower hallway and heard voices. Looking around. He finally took refuge under Arabella 's desk. In the dark hollow, he listened as Moffitt and the Ambassador walked by. 

"Then you have your orders," the Ambassador stated. 

"Yes, sir. There is still a week, though." 

"You still want that American?" 

"Yes, sir! I trust him implicitly. sir." 

"We alreadv have a man assigned-"

"Sir, I’d would rather chose my own back-up. Private Pettigrew and I worked together in North Africa and know each other's ways. I don't known Leftenant Partridge that well--"

"You don't trust him?" 

Moffitt was silent for a moment. His voice was heavy with reluctance when he spoke. “I don't know much about him, sir, except that he can't read maps." 

“I see." The two men climbed the stairs out of Partridge's hearing. 

Partridge felt a cold finger stroke his spine. This was going to be tricky, if Moffitt suspected him. He'd have to set up the photo session very carefully so that Moffitt didn't notice his connection. But the next morning, Moffitt was gone to Kentucky and Partridge was left to stew. 

 

NORWAY-April 1943 

"He finally came back, towing that American with him, and I got Mary to set up the picture, but they got suspicious. I had to leave Washington," Partridge concluded. 

"An interesting story," Dietrich said thoughtfully. "I'm glad that Private Pettigrew has recovered from his injuries." 

Partridge made a disgusted sound. "That ignorant hillbilly? Should have been left in the swamps or whatever they have in Kentucky." 

"Mountains, I believe. You underestimate him," Dietrich contradicted. "But that's of no matter, I believe that you are here to identify Colonel Alexander?" 

"Yes," Partridge agreed and rose, "Shall we go?" 

"That is, if we have the real man here," Stahl said impatiently. "I rounded up as many men who matched the picture as possible.” 

Partridge looked disgusted. "Looked like the picture? Hell, that's Sergeant Moffitt! Alexander doesn't look like that!" 

Stahl stiffened, as much offended by the tone as by the words. "I was very careful-" 

"We rounded up others as welL" Dietrich murmured. "Shall we go, Herr Partridge?" 

The others preceded him out of the room, which gave Dietrich a moment to savor exhilaration. Stahl would get little credit out of this affair. Dietrich might get enough to get himself transferred to Rommel's staff. 

They went to the basement where two prisoners shared each celL The men were either truculent or terrified when the door was open. In one cell, one of the men wet himself as Stahl loomed in the doorway, His partner wrinkled his nose in disgust. 

Partridge shook his head. "No, These aren't Colonel Alexander." 

Dietrich smiled, and stepped back. 

Stahl slammed the door shut, and stalked onward. "We have others." 

Dietrich ignored pain in his shoulder as he followed them down the hallway. It was a minor ache compared with the pleasure of watching Stahl get more and more frustrated as man after man turned out not to be Colonel Alexander. 

They reached the last cell. Neither man was the spy, 

"So where is he?" Partridge asked angrily. "I was told you had arrested him, Herr Major! The cable said he was ill-" 

"Ill!" Stahl was a second slower than Dietrich. "Why didn't you say this before! The ill man is upstairs on the main level where the doctor has been treating him." 

"A doctor? A German doctor?" 

“Nein. A Norwegian doctor, Goedhart," Dietrich interjected. "He also saw to my shoulder. A well meaning man." 

"Wasn't he the man who tried to help Alexander on the docks?"' Stahl asked suspiciously. 

Partridge smiled mockingly. "He was probably trying to get him to safety. Is every Norwegian part of the Resistance, Major Stahl ?" 

_Not for lack o( trying on Stahl's part,_ Dietrich thought acidly. 

"This way." Stahl stalked up the corridor, coat swirling around his shiny boots, and the others trailing behind. The hospital ward was empty except for the man at one end of the room, who was coughing irregularly. His breathing sounded better than it had two days before. 

The moonlight fell across the floor tiles patterning it like an Escher print. Dietrich was obscurely grateful that he could remember the artist's name. Wasn't he the man in whose work there was no way out of the mazes? Sort of like the German position in Norway. No way out. 

Stahl snapped the switch and the room flooded with light. The man flinched, coughed, his eyes blinking frantically in the harsh glare. His eyes widened when he saw Partridge, and Dietrich knew he had given himself away. 

"Guten tag, Colonel Alexander," Partridge said sarcastically. "Remember me?" 

The man froze, one hand sheltering his eyes. He put it down slowly as he watched them. "Who are you?" 

"Remember France?" 

Alexander shook his head slowly, the effort causing some pain from his grimace. "'What are you talking-" 

"Don' t even try to hide it, Colonel," Stahl sneered. "We will send you to Berlin, where they will find out all your secrets," 

The man eyed them noncommittally, then shrugged. He relaxed and folded his hands. "I've always hated traitors, Partridge. You'll hang for this." 

Dietrich hid his smile. He had chosen the right man. He glanced out the window. The view was of a small yard that lay between the stone wall that surrounded the chateau and the building. Before the war it had probably led to a small garden or a place to wash automobiles since it was at one end of the building. Now all Dietrich could see was a narrow strip of moonlight between the windows and the shadow, of the wall. The top was laced with barbed wire and glass. 

"Go to hell. Colonel. You've caused me enough trouble," Partridge snarled. "You'd better move him soon, Major Stahl. He's a damn elusive son-of-a-bitch.” 

"What a thing to call your superior officer!" Alexander murmured. His voice was still thick. 

"I will have a truck brought around," Stahl ordered. "I will also order the arrest of Doctor Goedhart. Captain Dietrich!"

"Go ahead," Dietrich agreed. He sat down on the bed across the aisle from Alexander who was coughing. "What is one more arrest?" 

Stahl stared at him with loathing. "You are very casual, Captain." 

"Nonsense, Major. I will simply report this all to Berlin. They will be the judge of the situation." 

There was a huge bang and the building rocked. Dietrich looked up. "Two days since we picked you up. Colonel. I'd say they were right on time," 

"On time?" Stahl asked in a whisper. 

"The commandos. Probably Sergeant Moffitt and Private Pettigrew, They've come to save you." 

Stahl looked furious. "Do you mean we're under attack?" 

The crash of a rocket striking the upper stories made the building shake again. A cloud of dust sifted past the windows. There came the stutter of a machine gun. "You are definitely under attack," Dietrich said in amusement. 

"What do they have planned?" Stahl snapped. 

Dietrich raised an elegant eyebrow. "How would I know? It sounds like ..," he cocked his head, "a diversion. They probably plan to attack the buildings and force their way in.”

“That would be messy,” Partridge commented. “Lose a lot of men that way.” 

"So, they probably are planning to come in with a small group. While you are engaged in the front they will break in here,” Dietrich concluded. "A classic plan." 

"I will make sure that nothing like that happens," Stahl snarled. He stared at the coughing man. "You will see Berlin shortly, Colonel." 

Alexander smiled mockingly. "To again see the Brandenburg Gate in the light of Nazi torches. What a nightmare to look forward to." 

"I think you'd better set the guards to searching, Major Stahl," Dietrich cut in, his words slicing through the tension. 

"I will hang their bodies from the gates!" Stahl boasted. 

Dietrich smiled. He was enjoying watching Stahl walk to his grave by his own free will. Nothing Dietrich could say do would stop it, though he had to try. "These men are professionals, Herr Major. At least double the guards!" 

"You overestimate them. You, come with me," Stahl ordered Lipken who had been silently watching. 

"Me. sir?" Lipken's adam's apple moved convulsively as he swallowed.

"Yes. I will send a guard in here to stay with the prisoner," Stahl said, flicking a glance at Dietrich. "Unless the Hauptmann-" 

"I will stay with him until then," Dietrich offered, not moving off the bed. Alexander studied him, his hand not moving on the blanket. 

"Why, Captain?" 

“You're a dangerous man, ColoneL" Dietrich answered him directly. "Set the guards, Major Stahl!" 

The Gestapo man snorted and swung on his heel. He stalked out, Partridge following after throwing one obscene gesture at Alexander. Lipken trailed behind reluctantly. 

Left alone in the brightly-lit room, Dietrich and the prisoner eyed each other with interest. 

"That boy never expected to find himself in a fight," Alexander finally said. 

"No, he didn't,” Dietrich agreed. "He just might be killed. His parents will grieve. The army will not." He went over to the window and looked out. He saw nothing but the gravel, the outline of the light falling on the gravel, and the dark bulk of the wall beyond. The fighting had stopped. 

“So when will they come for you?" Dietrich asked conversationally turning back to Alexander.

"Who, Herr Hauptmann?" Alexander replied, a faint smile on his lips. 

"Oh, come now, if the English have sent in half the Rat Patrol to rescue you. They won't be stopped by Stahl's operetta guards," Dietrich said with a snort. "If Sergeant Moffitt has the Underground's assistance, then the attack will be soon. And unexpected."

"You know them very well,” Alexander commented. "Stahl will double the guard. That may be a problem." 

Dietrich snorted. "I doubt it, Colonel Alexander. He does not value my experience in dealing with commandos. Especially these commandos."

"He's a fool, then," Alexander retorted, his voice serious. "You're the more dangerous man in Norway right now." 

"At the moment, I am to you," Dietrich replied with a ghost of a laugh. "I will just wait here. " 

"With me? Not awaken all your troops-" 

Dietrich shrugged. “What they want is you, Colonel. This is the best place to catch them." 

"And what will you do with them then?" Alexander asked. 

"I will handle that when I have them," Dietrich replied. He felt a surge of adrenaline lifting him out of his earlier depression. He hadn't had a challenge like this since North Africa. It was almost like coming back to life. 

Alexander chuckled, and started to cough. Finally, sucking in air, he whispered. "You have to catch them first. I don't think Stahl will let you have them after you do." 

Dietrich frowned. "I will deal with that when I get to it, Colonel. I will do my best to work around the Major!" A shadow passed across the gravel then a German sentry walked through the light cast by the lamp. Dietrich jumped, 

"You're nervous. Herr Hauptmann," Alexander murmured. "Are you scared of them?" 

"Never. I know these men. I am not unprepared." Dietrich fumbled with the gun in his holster, The pain in his left hand made him wince, and holding the heavy Luger in the right made the wound in his arm ache, He sat down in the chair opposite Alexander's bed, and let the gun sink down into his lap.

"You appear to be looking forward to this meeting." 

Dietrich laughed. then muted it when Alexander winced, "I am. You are still in pain?"

Alexander smiled faintly. "You don't think that Stahl would waste a painkiller on me? Goedhart had a limited supply." 

"Ah." Dietrich felt in his pocket for the small screw of paper where he had hid the painkiller the doctor had tried to force on him. He knew that it would have knocked him out for hours, and he didn't want that. Laying the Luger on the bed, he walked over to Alexander's bed. The water glass was half· full. "Try this." 

Alexanderlooked suspicious. "What is it?" 

"Something for pain. Goedhart gave it to me for my shoulder. You look like you need it," Dietrich said honestly. He held out the pill. The man stared at him suspiciously. 

Finally, he took the paper. “What will it do?" 

"You'll sleep," Dietrich promised. "For hours. Long enough for me to contact my superiors and get you free of Stahl, I hope."

Alexander gave a slight smile. "I don't think you can pull it off, Hauptmann." 

They heard tramping footsteps, then a guard came in the room, his weapon held ready. He was followed by four other men carrying a stretcher, Dietrich turned, his right hand holding the glass. "What do you want.. .. Sergeant Troy? Sergeant Troy?" He felt his jaw drop. This had to be an apparition. 

The guard pointed the gun at Dietrich, "Hello, Captain Dietrich," Troy said, “Long time, no see." 

Dietrich shook his head in admiration. "I warned Stahl that Sergeant Moffitt would be here soon. I didn't know you'd be with him." 

Troy smiled. "I couldn't believe I saw you on the docks." 

"When you came...you were there?" Dietrich glanced at Alexander who nodded. "You came out with the Colonel. Very impressive. You didn't say hello, Sergeant." 

"Sorry, I'll ask Moffitt for etiquette lessons next time," Troy promised, "Don't take that pill, Pierson!" 

Alexander nodded and folded his hand around it. "Glad to see you, Troy. Come to fulfill your promise?" 

Troy snorted. "No way. We're getting out of here." 

"And how do you plan to do that, Sergeant?" Dietrich asked in honest curiosity. "Especially with a sick man." 

"I thought I might just carry him out the front door," Troy replied. 

Dietrich absorbed this. "On your stretcher. Through the guards. I'm impressed by your self·confidence. There's a battle going on out there right now." 

"Not any longer," Troy said with a hint of amusement. "I'm happy you're here, Captain. Maybe you'd like to accompany us." 

Dietrich's back stiffened. A human shield? "Stahl will shoot through me to stop you," he warned. "I am hardly the man to use as a hostage." 

"Maybe you want to get out of here as much as we do," Alexander wheezed, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The nightshirt dangled around his bony legs and he swayed. "God, this hurts." 

One of the guards helped him walk over to the stretcher. Dietrich recognized the wheat hair and features of Tully Pettigrew under the Wehrmacht cap. A bubble of laughter threatened to strangle him. This was unbelievable. 

"I'm not sure I can help you here, Sergeant," Dietrich declared, replacing the cup on the bedside table. 

"Then I'll just kill you here," Troy said in a steely voice. His cold-eyed gaze met Dietrich's calm.

He'd do it, too, Dietrich realized with a chill. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his abandoned Luger lying on the opposite bed. It could have been in another country. "It won't be the first time I've been shot in Norway," Dietrich replied with a touch of weariness. 

Alexander lay down on the stretcher and Hitchcock covered him with a blanket, tucking in the edges neatly. The colonel was obviously exhausted from the slight walk. He gasped trying to get a clear breath. 

"Your choice, Captain," Troy said softly. "I would...I will shoot you if I have to." 

Dietrich realized with a shock that Troy didn't want to kill him. That would never have happened in North Africa; or would it have? As he stared at him, he remembered how many times they had run into each other and not killed one another. 

"Get the gun," Alexander ordered weakly. shattering the tension. "The one on that bed." He gestured weakly to the Luger. "I want it." 

Hitchcock picked it up and laid it beside Alexander under the blanket. 

"Don't shoot yourself with that thing," Troy ordered harshly, his eyes never leaving Dietrich's. "We're not out of here yet." 

Dietrich almost laughed. He was being borne along on a river in full flood and the only way out was to ride the waves, and hope his rowboat didn't overturn. "What do you want me to do, Sergeant?"

Hitchcock and Tully both smothered grins. 

"You go first, Captain, with me," Troy ordered. "If Stahl or the others try and stop us, you talk them out of it." 

"Stahl has already ordered me shipped to Berlin," Alexander called tiredly. 

"True," Dietrich said walking to the front of the stretcher. Troy was a step behind him the muzzle of the gun occasionally poking Dietrich's back. The Luger was within reach of the German's bandaged hand but he didn't try for it. That would be suicidal. "This is just a little faster than anyone thought it would happen." 

Troy laughed. "Sounds tailor-made for us. Just play your part, Captain.”

"And what?"' Dietrich asked, opening the door to the ward. "What do you have planned, Sergeant Troy? Killing me? Somehow laying my life on the line for the Allied cause was not how I planned to die." 

Troy didn't answer, since the hallway was filled with Gestapo men. The soldiers parted as Dietrich and his small troop carried Alexander down the hallway. 

The curving stairs were full of troops as well, and Dietrich was well aware that all he had to do was call for help, and it would be forthcoming. A perverse impulse kept him silent. Not only would Troy kill him if he called, but it would be a spit in the eye to Stahl if he lost his prisoner because he didn't heed Dietrich's advice. Amusement bubbled up again, and he swallowed it. The situation was incredibly dangerous and all he wanted to do was laugh. 

They went outside where a truck was waiting. Dourly. Dietrich noticed the German crosses on the sides of the canvas and the dark interior. A familiar face wearing a driver's cap peered out of the front cab for a second. then withdrew. Sergeant Moffitt. They were all together now. Dietrich felt like he had lost the last six months. He knew these men better than any of the troops around him. They were almost friends. Certainly better friends than Stahl or Lipken. 

Dietrich stepped aside, his movement matched by Troy as Tully. Hitchcock. Lars and Roger slid Alexander into the truck. 

“Halt!" came Stahl's bellow, and everyone froze. 

He bustled out of the building, several aides on his heels. "Where are you taking this man?" He barked at Dietrich. 

"To my headquarters," he replied smoothly, "where he will be held until the train departs tomorrow for Oslo. I did say earlier that he ought to be moved. Herr Major." 

Stahl shook his head Violently. "Not now in the middle of the night, Herr Hauptmann! Are you stupid? Your headquarters-" 

“--Is not under attack!" Dietrich snapped back forcefully. He felt Troy tense beside him. Pity it wasn't over the insult that Stahl just threw.

“Your men showed up just in time to move him, Major Stahl. I was escorting them to the truck." 

"I gave no such order!" Stahl howled staring over Dietrich's shoulder at Troy. "You there--" 

“Damn it!" Troy hissed between his teeth. and shoved Dietrich out of his way, He shot at Stahl. That was the sign for the others. The Resistance fighters in started firing from outside, then several ran in. The guards all around them scattered or fell as they opened fire, Stahl screamed as he was cut down by Troy's bullets. The guards on the walls started firing at the trapped men. 

Dietrich knew there was only one place to go that might be safe. He pulled himself into the truck and threw himself down on Alexander, feeling for the Luger. The man feebly struggled, but Dietrich had the gun, and jammed it in his ribs. "Quiet!" 

Alexander stopped moving. 

Outside, Roger fell against the side of the truck, hit several times in the chest. He kept shooting as best he could. 

"Hitch, Tully, into the truck!" Troy ordered, ducking down for the slight cover of the tailgate. Bullets pinged off it next to his dark hair. 

Hitchcock fired a blast, felling several troopers, then swung up. A bullet ripped his pants leg, scoring his skin. He fell on top of Dietrich. then rolled up against the side of the truck, his eyes taking in the scene. His hands tightened on the machine gun. 

Tully was more graceful. Reaching the back in two steps, then firing steadily over Troy's head as he helped Roger inside. Lars lay dead on the cobblestones. 

Roger landed beside Hitchcock and gaped at Dietrich and Alexander. He was in agony as blood leaked from his shirt. 

Partridge came tearing out of the building, then skidding to a stop next to Stahl’s body. He yelled something in German and pointed. The troopers lifted their guns as if they were a firing squad, aiming for the truck. 

"Moffitt, shake it!" Troy yelled, hopping aboard. His back was to Dietrich, as he fired. Partridge and the troops dived for cover behind the other dead bodies. 

The truck roared to life and started for the iron gates. 

Bullets perforated the canvas as the Gestapo opened fire. Tully grunted as he was hit in the shoulder, then scored along his side. 

"Stop firing!" Dietrich roared in German, then yelped as a bullet hit his wounded hand. The guns stopped for a brief second. 

Troy looked over his shoulder and saw the Luger. His gaze met Dietrich's unflinchingly but showed no fear. "What now, Captain?" 

"You had a plan to get through the gates?" Dietrich snapped unexpectedly. 

Troy gaped at him. To one side. Hitchcock moved slightly to get closer to Dietrich, who saw him and dug the Luger deeper into Alexander's side. The sick man winced. "Don't think of it. Private!" 

They heard the screech of the iron gates being opened, and more firing from in front of them. A berserker's howl carne up. and the firing started again. Someone threw a grenade and the explosion lit up the sky, shattering glass windows. '"The Resistance. I assume," Dietrich commented coldly. "Tell your Sergeant Moffitt to hurry up, Sergeant Troy!" 

Troy nodded, keeping his gaze on Dietrich. “Keep going. Moffitt!" The truck lurched, throwing them forward, and drove through the gates. The Resistance fighters were falling to the German guns. 

The stars were huge and bright. Dietrich thought, seeing them through rents in the canvas. It had been less than an hour since Partridge had been brought to Gestapo headquarters. Now the man was probably dead, along with Stahl and a great many other soldiers. There would be carnage in town unless Dietrich did something about it. He had to survive this! 

"Troy! More Germans!" Moffitt called from the front seat. 

"Who are they?" 

"Gestapo on foot. They've picked up Sigrid and Goedhart!” 

Dietrich cursed. He glared at Troy. "Free them, Sergeant." 

"What?" Troy asked mystified. 

"Get them free," Dietrich ordered abruptly, digging the Luger in Alexander's ribs. "Or we all die right now.” 

Troy glanced at Hitchcock. who was openly astonished. then at Tully who shrugged, leaving the decision up to Troy. 

"Hitch, tell Moffitt to stop by the troops. Tully…" 

"Right with you, Sarge." Tully said sliding down the length of the truck. Troy slid new ammunition into his pistol. 

The truck slowed to a crawl as they passed the six-man troop with the two terrified civilians in their midst. Overhead, a window opened, then slammed shut. The townspeople weren't going to get involved. 

"Now! " Troy hit the ground, firing and the two men in front went down. Tully used his pistol to take two more. The last pair cringed terrified against the wall. Goedhart gaped at them. 

"Get in the truck!" Troy snarled, pulling Sigrid free. He boosted her into the truck where she sat down next to Roger. She put her hand over her mouth as she stared at Dietrich, then at the others. Troy helped Goedhart clamber in. 

"I'll get in front, Sarge," Tully called. 

"Right." Troy hopped into the back, his gun aimed at the men who had their hands up. "Moffitt!" 

Hitchcock hit the back of the cab. Moffitt floored the accelerator and they were off. The two guards scrambled for their weapons, but a volley made everyone duck. 

"Troy, we've got to shift vehicles," Moffitt called. "This one is a little conspicuous now." 

"What now, Captain?" Troy asked Dietrich, who had rolled on one arm, the gun held ready. 

Dietrich looked at Sigrid who was clutching her shawl around her shoulders. The doctor had noticed Roger's injuries and was eyeing them professionally, but not making any overt moves. 

"You will take them with you when you leave Norway." He waved at Sigrid and the doctor. 

Everyone was struck dumb. Finally Troy nodded. "All right, Captain." 

"Your word on that, Sergeant!" Dietrich snarled. 

"My word on it, Captain," Troy said slowly, 

Dietrich sighed. He was tired, both his arms hurt and he was getting tired of holding the Luger. "I can't protect you here, Sigrid. You have to leave. You must realize what you have done, Sergeant." 

"What have I done, Captain?" Troy asked slowly. His hand hovered on the trigger of the gun. 

"By killing Stahl, you have brought down the wrath of the Gestapo on this city. Everyone will be shot or deported!" Dietrich said harshly. 

Troy looked as if he agreed'with that assessment. "We had hoped to have no casualties. It didn't work that way.” 

"You can do something about it, can't you, Captain Dietrich?" Hitchcock spoke up unexpectedly. He met Dietrich's gaze and the German wondered at the man's presumption. 

Troy frowned. "What do you mean?" 

"I can't stop them from destroying the city, Private," Dietrich replied. "That's a matter of policy, unfortunately." 

"You can slow them down, though,” Sigrid said staring at him. "Will you do that/" 

Hitchcock's foot landed on Dietrich's wounded hand. He screamed in pain. Alexander's hand came up and grabbed the Luger, turning the muzzle away from him.

With one hard blow on the side of the neck. Hitchcock knocked Dietrich unconscious. 

"What are you doing?" Sigrid cried. 

The others took a deep breath of relief. Troy crawled forward and rolled Dietrich off Alexander. "You okay, Colonel?" 

Alexander nodded. "Yes, fine now. What are you going to do about him?" His eyes were on the unconscious man. 

Troy's gaze went to Dietrich's pale face. "We'll have to get rid of him." 

"Don't shoot him," Sigrid pleaded, "You've done enough killing. If he's alive, maybe he can do something to help." 

"You never wanted to shoot him anyway, Sarge," Hitchcock challenged Troy with a slight touch of amusement. "Why break an old habit?"

Troy grinned slightly, "Yeah, right. So, we keep him alive. Where do we leave him that he won't get shot by your people, Roger?" 

Roger smiled feebly. Goedhart was now working on his wounds. "If you leave him in the street, he'll be dead in an hour."

“It is too cold for him to lie in the street. I know a place," Sigrid offered eagerly. She pulled at one of the tattered canvas strips and looked out. "Where are we ... ah. Turn left now!" 

Troy signaled Hitchcock, and the private relayed the order to Moffitt. 

An hour later, and over Moffitt's increasing complaints about their high-profile vehicle, they stopped in front of a wooden church whose lines were silhouetted against night stars. Troy blinked. The outline of the roof looked like Viking dragons. A veranda surrounded the building and the gabled front porch was a black pit but Sigrid led them to the door. 

Inside, the light from a candle hung from the ceiling a little to one side of the altar gave enough light for them to avoid running into the massive black-tarred staves that held up the building. Troy couldn't tell if there was a bell hanging in the vastness of the belfry above him. He could barely see the rows of pews. 

The four soldiers carried Dietrich inside where it was appreciably warmer. The sound of their boots echoed off the walls as they lugged the unconscious man up to the front row and laid him down gently in front of the altar. 

Troy wasn't the only one feeling an eerie sense of something otherworldly in the dark church. From the expression on Hitchcock's face, the private wouldn't have been surprised to see a ghost coming out of the darkness around them. Tully looked undisturbed, while Moffitt gazed around with a scholar's expression of interest. 

Lying at their feet, Dietrich looked dead. The faint light gilded his cropped brown hair, and the fine-cut features were reminiscent of tomb effigies, huge dark shapes of knights ready for the call of Judgment Day, The shoulder wound had broken open and stained blood on his white shirt but it didn't look fatal to Troy, He knew the German had taken worse over the years. Troy had given him worse. 

But he did look different than he had in North Africa. There were new lines under the eyes, lines down to the corners of his mouth that made him look older than his years. 

Troy sensed that Dietrich knew he was losing this war. The German was a pragmatist of the first order. He couldn't, wouldn't deceive himself that way. For a second, he wondered if they should take Dietrich with them, as a hostage. He'd end up in a prisoner-of-war camp and live. The thought startled Troy and he dismissed it. Not only was it impractical but the English might dump Dietrich overboard if he discovered their secret route through the North Sea and the German was just as likely to try to get the information back to his comrades in Germany as Troy would have if he was in the other's position. He had never underestimated the man. They were equals. 

"What is this place?" Moffitt asked suddenly, shattering the silence, His words reverberated up into the darkness and Troy heard the ding of a bell. 

"A stave church," Sigrid replied, tucking a carnation into Dietrich's hand. "There are only a few left." 

"It's very old."

"Yes. The priests had to include the dragon carvings as a way of melding the two religions...and to make sure they had the best of both worlds," Goedhart commented, a line of disapproval between his brows as he watched Sigrid. "We should go." 

Unexpectedly, Hitchcock asked. "He'll be all right?,' He gestured to Dietrich.

"What does it matter to you? You were the one who hit him!" Troy shot back, then chuckled at Hitchcock's expression. 

"Sarge, I didn't want to wait until he made up his mind what to do!" 

"Aren't we being a little premature here?" Tully commented. "He looks like he's ready for a shroud." 

"Talk to the lady," Troy retorted with a grin. "This is her idea." 

"The pastor will wake Hauptmann Dietrich hours from now if he hasn't awakened by then," Sigrid replied. "He will see that he gets back to the city." 

"Pity," Goedhart muttered under his breath, then looked defiant as Sigrid glared at him. "He's a German. Sigrid!" 

"Yes, he'll be all right. He’s protected in here," Moffitt said, looking amused. "Troy, we have to go," he added seriously. "The Underground won't wait much longer and these hills are swarming with Germans. I'm sure Alexander should gel out of this cold. It can't be good for him!" 

"Let's shake it," Troy answered with a laugh. "Sleep well, Captain." 

Bringing up the rear, he took one last look back at the motionless body, and saluted, then went out into the frigid night. 

 

Dietrich felt the icy chill of cold stone under his cheek. He opened his eyes a crack and saw light above him, to the right, but everywhere else darkness. The encompassing darkness pressed in like a tomb. His muscles were stiff from lying on the pavement. 

He rolled upright cautiously, his hand holding something that had gotten crushed. Moving his neck. he winced, and wondered if anything was broken. The young private had a powerful right boot. His hand throbbed. 

Checking his watch, he saw that seven hours had passed. The Rat Patrol should have disappeared into the mountains with the Norwegian resistance, and he was damned if he would go after them right away. There would be enough to worry about back in Susevend. 

The hanging candle flickered as it burned low. 

He looked down at the flower that had fallen to one side. A carnation. How touching. It had to be from Sigrid. He hoped that she and the doctor would be safe, along with the others. Funny how that was. At times, he felt more affinity with his enemies than with his own side. 

Climbing to his feet, he steadied himself on a pew and looked around. It was the same church where the commandos' burial ceremony had been held. At least Stahl wouldn't be buried here. That brought up another headache. Dietrich would have to ensure that the man's body was shipped back to Germany with due ceremony. It made his head ache at the thought. 

He staggered up the aisle to the front door, which was drowned in black shadows. Fumbling with the ornate brass lock, he turned it and pushed open the door. Cold air blasted past him, and he shivered, trying to still his chattering teeth. 

The frigid air smelled fresh. Streaks of light shot between the clouds that sat over the city as the sun rose. A plume of black smoke came from where Gestapo headquarters was probably still burning.

A farmer with a horse-drawn cart came up the rise and paused on the crest, staring at his hand. Dietrich looked down. He had been twirling the carnation. The German smiled. and broke off the flower, putting it in his pocket, discarding the stem. A souvenir of a disastrous night. 

“Take me back to the city." he said, swinging up into the cart. 

The man clicked his tongue, and the horse started to trot. 

Dietrich laughed under his breath. Nothing ever changed. Half a year later and he was still cleaning up after the Rat Patrol. 

NORWAY-TWO DAYS AFTER THE ATTACK 

Troy shivered as the air cooled. Behind the craggy mountains, the sun had set a half ¬hour ago. The beach he stood on was a narrow strip of volcanic rock and pebbles, washed by the icy waters of the North Sea. Winds howled around his ears, and he turned up the collar of his coat. 

A deep-seated cough disturbed his concentration, and he turned around. 

Alexander lay to one side of Sigrid and Goedhart, his hand over his mouth. The doctor was hunched over, staring at the sand, while the woman looked at the water with a slight reminiscent smile. Was she thinking of Dietrich? Maybe. Maybe not. 

They had spent two days hiding in the mountains, moving from mine to cave to beaches, then back. avoiding German patrols. The boats had scoured the area for two days. and were still likely to appear magically out of an cove in the neighboring fjord. 

Troy wondered how Dietrich was making out. He was probably warm and comfy while his quarry froze on the beach. This had been the first dry hour since they left the stave church and took to the hills. An icy drizzling rain had fallen for hours, seeping through their clothing, and making the Norwegians more cautious as they led the five men and the stretcher through the narrow passages. 

He looked up at the mountains, and wondered how the sentries stood the cold. He wasn't even sure of how many sentries there were 'up there. The number of freedom fighters had dwindled as they went north. Roger had fallen out the second day to recover from his injuries. He gave his clothes to Alexander, who took them gratefully despite the bloodstains. 

Hitchcock and Tully had offered to stand one watch and been accepted as long as they had one of the guides with them. Troy vaguely envied them; at least they were doing something. 

Moffitt yanked over to the small group, his scarf wrapped up around his face so that his ears were covered. The upper tips were bright red. He held out a mug to Alexander, who smiled. Troy smelled wood burning and worried about the Germans. 

Troy turned and walked towards the small group. Alexanderc oughed harshly, the sound echoing up the cliffs. Moffitt shook his head warningly at Troy, who nodded his understanding. They needed to get Alexander out of this wind and chill if they wanted him to get better. 

The gunshot that split the night was totally unexpected. 

Sigrid screamed as Moffitt staggered back, then fell on the rocky pebbles. Goedhart made a lunge for the sheltering stones. He screamed in pain as another bullet sank into his shoulder. 

Alexander looked up furtively. "What the devil...?" 

Troy scrambled for a sheltering rock. "Get back!" he snarled at Alexander. "You too, Sigrid! Get her back. Alexander!" 

Alexander nodded, and held onto Sigrid who was reaching out for the wounded doctor. Alexander finally pinned her down. 

Troy raised his gun. watching the cliffs for the sign of the sniper. The doctor's sobbing was all he heard as the man curled into a fetal position several feet from Moffitt's body. Troy was struck by an eerie deja vu. Their last mission Moffitt had been given up for dead. Now he was ... wasn’t he?”

Moffitt's hand moved feebly towards his gun, then stopped. His chest was covered with blood, and the wave that swept around him washed away with a red tinge. Not dead yet. But dying, yes. Troy had to get to him fast or he'd bleed to death. 

Who the hell had shot him? He reviewed the past few minutes and realized that the sniper might have shot the wrong man. In that case, he could lure the man out with the truth. 

"Alexander!" Troy hissed. "Cough!" 

The man nodded. Alexander let out a wracking cough, then several more. The sound traveled upward on the strong wind. Troy bit his lip then deliberately moved out of the shadows toward Moffitt. A bullet whipped by him. and he dodged back into the shadows. 

Silence but for the wind and the waves, and Moffitt's harsh breathing. The incoming tide soaked his clothing. Then shouting, and the sound of a scuffle. Troy risked looking up into the dark craggy hills, then moved along the beach, gun held ready. Nothing happened. 

***

Hitchcock had crouched instinctively when he heard the first shot. He looked around the dark path where he and a Norwegian had been stationed. They had whiled away the time pointing at seabirds and first whispering the names in English, then Norwegian. The sentry, who had to be all of sixteen, was a better student than Hitchcock. The boy now turned and disappeared down the stony path. 

Hitchcock followed cautiously, feeling his way. The moon hadn't risen yet. and the faint stars didn't give enough light to see. 

The second shot rang out, and Hitchcock saw the muzzle flash. It was just above him. on a ledge that led to nowhere. Whoever was shooting must have been there for a while. Must have been there waiting, he realized with a chill. Who could have known the spot? 

Silently, he retreated a couple of steps to where he could see the rocky mountainside. and laid aside his gun. Feeling for the knife Tully had given him, he put it in his belt. then reached up for the rocky mountainside. He might be able to climb up to the sniper. 

The sound of coughing covered the first noise he made when his foot slipped. He lay against the rock for a second, taking deep breaths. Then he pulled himself up to within inches of the ledge. and carefully, very carefully, looked over. 

The sniper lay in the middle of the ledge, his rifle aimed downwards. He lowered his head to peer through the gunsight and Hitchcock eased himself up further until he could step on the ledge. 

The next shot made him flinch, even though he had been expecting it. The reverberating noise covered his leap, and he landed on the man unexpectedly. 

The man yelled, and dropped the gun. rolling to dislodge his determined attacker. He knocked Hitchcock's knife out of reach as they fought on the ledge. The gun slid forward, then fell into the cove. 

The man smashed Hitchcock in the face. and the private rocked back, momentarily dazed. In one hand he held the man's dark cap. 

Even in the faint light the red stubble was unmistakable. Partridge! 

They struggled violently, trading blows and kicks. Hitchcock knew his skills were rusty and that Partridge was at the height of his training, but desperation and anger filled Hitch. and he landed a good solid blow on the man's face. 

Partridge staggered, his feet slipping on the muddy grass. He kicked out viciously, hitting Hitchcock in the lower ribs. Hitchcock reeled back against the rocky cliff. He collapsed, his vision swimming from the pain. 

Partridge picked up the knife and smiled. 

Hitchcock watched a dark shadow swing down on a rope and land, with a thud, behind Partridge. The man half-turned as Tully grabbed the wrist holding the knife. The two men struggled, then Tully lashed out viciously, smashing a boot on Partridge's knee. The man gasped and fell forward. 

He couldn't avoid the knife which pierced his throat. 

Blood spurted on Tully's coat and face. Partridge looked startled, his hand going up lo the spouting red wound. He staggered a few steps back, then fell, still looking surprised. His body rolled to the edge, then over. 

Hitchcock heard him hit the mountainside, then a few seconds later, another sloshy thud. He must have fallen into the surf. THe took a deep breath, ran his hands over his blood-spattered face, then spat over the edge. "That takes care of him." 

"Yeah. We'd better get down there," Hitchcock suggested, though he didn't want to move. "What the hell happened, Tully? 

"I was on the top of the cliff and saw our ride coming in. Then I heard the shots. We'd better get below and find out what happened to the others." 

"Right." 

***

Troy saw the body land in the surf. The stubble was almost the same color as the blood being washed away by the white surf. Partridge was finally dead. Good. One more traitor gone. He abandoned the shadows and ran to Moffitt. 

The front of his blue sweater was sodden with dark blood while his hair and shoulders were salty from the surf. The tide was coming in. They had to get him out of the water. 

Troy checked for a pulse and found a feeble one, He stared over at the doctor who was still moaning as Sigrid tended his wound. 

Alexander staggered on the rocks as he came over. "Is he alive?" 

"Barely," Troy said through gritted teeth. "Help me pull him up the beach? Looks like Partridge's last stand was his last mistake. Have you got anything that I can use for the bleeding?" 

"Nothing. Goedhart doesn't have his bag." 

After helping Troy drag Moffitt further up the rocky stones, he went over to Goedhart and started talking, The doctor was whimpering. 

"Is he dead. Sarge?" Tully called, coming out of the darkness with a shower of pebbles, He looked absolutely aghast, something that Troy noted with a bit of surprise. "What happened to Moffitt, Sarge?" 

Troy jerked his chin to the other body. "Partridge is dead. Got some bandages, Tully?" 

"Yeah. I've got a kit they gave me," Tully said, pulling out the pouch, He helped Troy to dust the wound with penicillin and put on the temporary bandage. "I saw the boat coming in, Sarge."

Troy felt a surge of hope. They might just make it. “Good. The sooner we can get him to a hospital, the better." 

"What about the doc?" Tully asked, glancing over at Goedhart where he lying on his back, his eyes shut. His face wet with tears. 

"Where's Hitch?" Troy said evasively looking around. 

Tully grinned. "Waving to the boat. He attacked Partridge and held him long enough for me to get there. Helluva a fight. I dunno where Partridge came from, though. He must have been following us."

"Why the hell didn't we see him?" Troy blazed. "He must have been following us for days!" 

Tully shrugged. "Dunno. Sarge." 

Alexander returned. "He's of no help, Troy. Keeps crying like a baby and wants to go home." 

“They’ll shoot him back home,” Troy retorted. “Tully, help me.”

Tully helped hold Moffitt up so that Troy could lay the bandage over the back wound and tape it into place. "Partridge thought Moffitt was you, didn't he, Colonel?" 

"He must have," Alexander agreed. He coughed long and hard, then hawked the phlegm into the surf.

"All you Alexanders look alike," Troy said in disgust. "In that case, Colonel, do you mind not dying on the way home? I'd hate to lose three Alexanders in one year." 

Alexander gave a weary smile. "I'll try not to disappoint you, Sergeant Troy. What about your friend?" 

Troy looked down at Moffitt. He was as white as a ghost. "We'll see how long he lasts." 

"Guess his father was right,” Tully mumbled, kneeling beside Moffitt. 

"What do you mean?" Troy asked. 

"He said he wasn't going to tell his mom that he was alive until he came back from the mission," Tully said. "They buried him back at the time this all started, Professor Moffitt and the missus. Even put up a plaque. Guess they'll have to change the date on it now."

Troy stared at him with disbelief. "They buried the other man under Moffitt's name?" 

"He's not going to die again," Alexander said with calm assurance. "Have some faith."

For a second, Troy absolutely believed him. The tone was reassuring and commanding. Absurdly, he was reminded that Alexander was really a colonel, and that soldiers were supposed to believe what officers laid them. Then reality broke through. 

Hitchcock appeared out of the darkness. "Hey. Sarge! The boat's nearly here. God, Moffitt!"

"He'll live," Troy said glancing at Alexander, who smiled. "Do you still have that pill, Colonel?" 

Alexander nodded. “I thought you were scared of it, Troy." 

"Dietrich wouldn't lie to us," Troy said with certainty, "Maybe it will help." 

They forced it down Moffitt's throat as a boat chugged into the cove. It had the outline of a fishing boat. Their ride home had arrived.

 

Dietrich set his cap on his smoothly brushed hair and walked out of the wreckage of Gestapo headquarters. The activity in the courtyard stopped. The soldiers stiffened and saluted. Even the Gestapo men were saluting. 

He didn't mind that they were being respectful for what he considered all the wrong reasons. Shortly, if all went well. he would be free of this city, free of the Gestapo, free of Norway altogether. 

He paused, looking into the back of the nearest truck. It was filled with coffins which held the bodies of the dead soldiers. Stahl's was marked with his name, Dietrich made a mental note to make sure it was loaded carefully onto the train. 

Ironically. several of these coffins were the same ones that had once held the commandos' bodies before they had been spirited to safety, Dietrich had taken particular pleasure in ordering Lipken to round up those coffins from the pastor of the stave church, The lieutenant had been badly unnerved by the firefight. That was fine by Dietrich. Lipken's new assignment was to escort the bodies back to Germany where they would go to their home cities to be buried. He felt sure the young man could handle it, and it would get Lipken out of Norway, if he survived the trip. 

Dietrich looked back at the wreckage of the building then, nodding his farewell, then headed out to the street. Lipken and several guards trailed behind him. 

The street was awash with civilians. They were silently aware of him, their faces pale with fear or loathing. Most of the men had their hands behind their heads, while the women and children were cringing. 

Dietrich estimated it was about a third of the population of Susevend. The others had heard the firing and taken off for the hills. making it difficult for the Germans to round them up. Lipken had been hysterical!y ordering the guards to shoot people, but Dietrich countermanded that when he arrived back from the church. 

His gaze swept over the crowd. Good. Enough to fill the ten boxcars that were waiting for them at the station. 

"You see what has happened!” he roared, drawing all their attention to him. He looked every inch a polished German officer. "Major Stahl has been murdered by the commandos. and other soldiers of the Reich have paid for this escape with their lives. I have been ordered to send you all to the labor camps in Germany!" 

The crowd gasped, and a woman wailed. She was stifled by the man beside her. 

He went on slowly, knowing that anyone who didn't understand his words would have them translated into Norwegian. “You will be loaded into the boxcars. and the train will leave in five hours. I regret that the accommodations will be tight. but we have little sympathy for those who murder our comrades! Your city would be razed." 

That Dietrich didn't regret doing. Susevend was filled with ugly concrete buildings. The inhabitants wouldn't miss it at all. "The demolition will start shortly. If you know where people are hiding, tell the soldiers. Either that, or let them die!”

The crowd stared at him in silent hatred. 

Dietrich ignored it. He turned to Lipken. "You have your orders, Lieutenant!·' 

“Ja. Herr Hauptmann!” Lipken saluted and turned on his heel. The guards moved forward to hustle the crowd towards the station. Dietrich impassively watched the operation. then turned and walked over to another officer. "The explosives are set,” he asked.

“Ja. Herr Hauptmann," the engineer said. 

“Then blow it up," Dietrich turned. 

With a wave of his hand. the demolitions expert exploded the dynamite under Gestapo headquarters. The sound rolled over Dietrich and the crowd, along with a cloud of dust. After a bout of coughing. Dietrich saw with approval that the building had been demolished. He turned. "All the rest of it.”

"Ja." The man saluted and went back to his team. 

Dietrich headed for the now-dusty black staff car waiting for him. 

With any luck, the Resistance would use the five hours to sabotage the tracks and free the prisoners. Dietrich sincerely hoped so. He had let the farmer go with just that in mind. 

 

ENGLAND-JUNE 1943 

Gay red poppies were growing among the gravestones in the churchyard. A few weeds attempted to flourish between the church's flagstones, but a small boy was doggedly digging them out with a small trowel. 

The sound of scraping grated on the nerves of the man who at on top step of the church. He leaned on one side of the arched gothic doorway and watched several teenagers pass chattering. Probably Cambridge students. Troy lit a cigarette and watched for his friends. 

Finally, he saw two men coming down the street accompanying a trio of girls, the whole group laughing. “Troy!" Hitchcock waved and Troy responded by waving his cigarette. 

Tully and Hitchcock were dressed in their best uniforms. Tully had a small guidebook in one hand, which he tucked away in a pocket as he sat down next to Hitchcock who sat beside Troy. The girls moved on, waving. "Where's Moffitt?" 

"Inside," Troy replied briefly and took another puff on his cigarette. 

Hitchcock eyed him suspiciously. "How is he?" 

"They let him out of the hospital two days ago. He insisted on coming here," Troy said briefly, and took another puff. The cigarette was half-burned by now. 

"Has his father told his mother he's alive?" Tully asked hesitantly.

“Yeah. He's inside with his mother right now," Troy answered. "He said he'd call when I could come in and get him.”

The others were silent. The authorities had whisked Alexander away as soon as they hit the wharf in the Shetland Islands. Moffitt and the wounded doctor had been taken to the local hospital and Troy, Hitchcock and Tully had been confined to the lonely barracks. They had whiled away the hours fitting together all the pieces of the puzzle. 

A week later, Troy cornered the officer in charge and demanded to know what had happened to Moffitt. The man, startled by Troy's tone but sensing the importance, promised to find out. 

Several days later, he was driven over to the local hospital where Moffitt was lying in the last bed of a ward. It was cold inside the brick hospital. Icy rain pelted the thin glass windows lending a depressing chill to the entire place. The room was almost empty except for a sleeping soldier, and at the other end. a curtained alcove. Troy's escort pointed to the curtains, then turned on his heel.

Troy walked down the aisle between the empty rows of beds. He tried to imagine them filled with men and found it depressingly simple. 

He paused, seeing the shadow of someone sitting by the bed, then pulled tentatively back on the curtain. "Hello?" 

The bearded man dressed in a neat prosaic suit turned in surprise, then rose, his smile welcoming. "Sergeant Troy?" 

"Professor Moffitt?" Troy asked hesitantly. The man looked different than he had the only other time Troy had met him. His gaze 'went to the man in bed, who was smiling weakly. "Jack?" 

"Troy! Come in," Moffitt whispered. "Please." 

"I'll get another chair," Troy said and pulled one out from across the way. He sat down at the end of the bed. 

"How are you?" 

Moffitt smiled. "Fine.” 

Professor Moffitt glared at his son. "You're lucky your doctor didn't hear that, young man!" 

"How is he?" Troy asked Professor Moffitt. 

"They've prescribed two more months of bed rest, then will be invaliding him out," the professor said bluntly. "However. I suspect he'll be on his feet in a month because that is when his mother arrives home, and I don't think he wants to be an invalid then." 

Moffitt's jaw dropped. "Mother is coming home?" He suddenly looked years younger and a touch apprehensive. 

“Yes. I had to pull some strings but I had some help," Professor Moffitt confessed. “A Lieutenant Colonel Alexander helped out some." 

Troy chuckled. "Glad to know he's still alive," 

"So, you get better," Professor Moffitt told his son sternly, "So you don' t frighten your mother even more than she is." 

"Who told her I was alive, sir?" Moffitt asked weakly. The bandages made him look like one of those mummies that he had dragged the patrol to see one leave in North Africa. 

Professor Moffitt hesitated. "I did. I had to. She saw the newspaper." 

After a moment's pause, Moffitt asked, "What did she say?" 

Moffitt's father looked uncomfortable, "She .. .is very happy that you're alive. She ..,cried over it. Then she got angry. I was glad that we were with friends," he said awkwardly. "You know how she is, son."

Moffitt's shoulders drooped slightly. "Ah." 

"I'll get some tea," Professor Moffitt said abruptly, and stood up. He disappeared around the curtain before Troy could react, leaving the two soldiers alone. 

Troy studied Moffitt until he looked up defensively, "Why are you worrying about your mother, Moffitt?" he finally asked, "She'll be here soon." 

Moffitt flashed a smile. "Mother is a terrible nurse, and most of my cousins look like leftovers from the British museum. They'll all fuss over me, and I'll go mad." 

He was lying. Troy knew that as intimately as he knew his own soul. Tully had done a lot of talking about Moffitt and his family during the weeks they were confined to barracks.. 

Troy wanted to break the woman in two. 

He changed the subject. "Be honest with me. How are you?" Troy asked, leaning forward. 

Moffitt held his hand up, palm towards the ceiling and waggled it from side to side. ''I'll recover. I should have bled to death on that beach but you got the bandages on in time." 

"Thank Alexander for that pill that knocked you out," Troy said. "It must have been a doozy."

Moffitt gave a weak smile. "I would if I knew where he was. They say I'm likely to be stationed here in England on limited duty or invalided out. I won't stand for that, Troy." 

"Nope," Troy said comfortably, 

"I mean it."

"I know. What can I do to help?" 

"Are you serious?" 

Troy shrugged. "Sure. I don't need them unloading another Brit on me." 

Moffitt laughed, then gasped in pain. "Don't do that, Troy, or I'll open this again. I'll need some help when I get out of this place. Will you be around?" 

"We're all here. Going stir-crazy at the barracks," Troy confirmed. "Here comes your father." 

"With the tea tray," Moffitt agreed, hearing the rattle of dishes on a tray. "We'll talk later. " 

The call came a month and a half later, when Moffitt was officially discharged from the hospitaL Troy drove down earlier than Tully and Hitchcock and met Moffitt at the train station when the injured sergeant disembarked. He looked tired but resolute. 

Troy picked up the small bag, ignoring Moffitt's glare, and carried it. "So you headed for home?" 

"Not yet," Moffitt said slowly. "My father called me before I left hospital." 

Troy stopped. "Why?" 

"He said that my mother is expecting me at St. Bart's," Moffitt said reluctantly.

The other man wondered if this was a good thing. "How do you feel?" 

"About seeing Mother? I'm looking forward to it, Troy," Moffitt said, his words at odds with his tone. 

"I meant physically," Troy replied sharply. "That was a long trip." 

"The situation won't be less uncomfortable later rather than now," Moffitt said tiredly. "Drive me to St. Bart’s, will you?"

"Yeah, I'll do that," Troy said, leading the way to his jeep. "Direct me down these country roads, Moffitt. I got lost twice on the way here." 

Moffitt laughed. 

A half hour later they drove up to the small Gothic church not far from the small Tudor house on the outskirts of the town where Moffitt’s parents lived. He had given a tour, pointing out various important buildings. King's College. Peterhouse. and Trinity as they drove along, but Troy sensed this was a distraction. Moffitt was perfectly willing to face German torture or being shot on a mission but he didn't want to face his mother. 

He stopped outside the churchyard. "Need some help?" 

''I'll be inside," Moffitt said with false brightness. 

Troy smiled faintly, understanding all too well. "I'll call Hitch and Tully and tell them where to meet up. It'll probably take about an hour for them to get here." 

"An hour. That's good," Moffitt replied distracted. He automatically straightened his tie, and pulled his jacket straight. His face was very pale. 

"Jack," Troy said, leaning on the wheel. He used Moffitt's first name so seldom that he had his total attention. 

"Yes, Troy?" 

"She's probably as afraid as you are. Get it over with," Troy ordered, and put the jeep into gear. In the mirror he could see Moffitt staring after him in shock. 

Moffitt stepped inside the church and paused to survey the field. The colored glass he remembered so well from his childhood had been taken down and the arched windows were covered with plywood, darkening the interior. The upper row of windows were covered with mesh, letting some light in. The room smelled of candle wax and fresh flowers. 

A woman stood by one wall with her back to him, a bunch of white roses in her hand. She was putting them in a holder set next to a pair of plaques. His brother. Himself. Two plaques lying side by side in the local church. Testaments to German accuracy. "Mother?" 

The woman's hands stopped moving for a second, then went back to arranging the flowers. She got it to her liking then stepped back. She didn't turn. "Jack?" 

He restrained a shiver and walked forward until he was behind her. "Mother?" 

Turning, she studied him for a grave second, then smiled. It was like a crack in a diamond. She was smaller than he remembered and the skin was as pale as the altar cloth behind her. Her dark eyes, so like his, pinned him to the side of the pew. "You're alive." 

"Yes, Mother," Moffitt said awkwardly, wondering what to do next. He had played this scene over and over in his head when he \vas in the hospital and it was as bad as he thought it would be. 

She cocked her head to one side. "I am glad to see that you are alive, Jack. I’ve missed you." 

As cold as the water off Norway. Troy should have left him there. He was never his brother to his mother. Why had he thought she might have changed? Moffitt gritted his teeth against the pain. "I didn't want it to be this way, Mother. The Army-" 

"Ah, yes, the Army." She stared at his uniform, once again a Sergeant's. "I suppose that they had something to do with it.'· 

"Yes. Mother."

"We've rented out your room, I'm afraid. I believe your father has some space up at the college," she continued politely. "Will you be staying here?”

"No. Mother. I've been called to London," Moffitt lied. His heart sank into the cobblestones beneath him. 

She nodded, her gaze going back to the plaques. Suddenly she frowned. "That's not right." 

"I'm sorry?" He looked at the wall and felt a pang. His brother's name inscribed on cold metal. All gone except the ghost. "That isn't your name, Jack!" she said huffily. Her finger tapped on the shiny upper plaque. He studied it. 

"Unknown officer, killed North Africa, October 20, 1942. Some sacrifices can never be told." 

"I shall take it up with the Vicar," his mother said shrilly, her face flushed with anger. "What does he mean changing the plaque?"' 

"Mother, I'm not dead." 

She glanced at him in scorn. "I know that, but I want to be informed when our plaques are touched! It was hard enough to get the metals for them." 

"Yes, Mother." 

Unexpectedly, she held up her hand against his cheek. "Do come and visit after London, Jack. Your father wants to see you. You haven't finished your first book yet. I still have all the notes packed away." 

_But stay at the college._ "Yes, Mother. I'll come back for that." 

Her heels clicked on the stone paving as she headed for the back of the church where the vicar would be. Moffitt sank into a pew and buried his head.  
After a few minutes. he stood, cheeks wet with tears, and walked over to the plaques. He took several of the roses and put them in the holder next to the unknown man. "You deserve these, sir. More than I ever did," 

***

"I'm hot," Hitchcock complained. "I thought England was supposed to be cold and rainy. How long you been out here, Sarge?" 

"A half hour." 

"Let's go inside," Hitchcock suggested. rising to his feel. "He's got to have worked it out by now," 

"I'm with you," Tully agreed. "Sarge?" 

Troy nodded and snuffed the cigarette on the granite step, carefully placing the butt in his pocket. Some POW camp habits died slowly. "Let's go." 

Inside they let their eyes adjust to the dimmer light. The empty room smelled of fresh pine and fir, and a bouquet of yellow and white daisies with huge ferns lit up the altar. It was incredibly peaceful. 

They found Moffitt standing beside the east wall.

Walking respectfully up the aisle, they joined him. He was frowning at the plaques. 

Moffitt tapped on the metal. "The lower one was mine. Someone's been here and changed it." 

"Does it matter?" asked a familiar voice from the back of the church. 

The four men swiveled, then stiffened and saluted, "Colonel Alexander?” Moffitt asked politely. 

"Full colonel, now," Alexander replied coming into the light and returning the salute. He still looked worn, and the uniform sat loosely on the bony shoulders. In the church's shadows, he looked like Moffitt's older brother. "At ease, gentlemen. Checking your memorial, Sergeant?" 

Moffitt smiled sheepishly. “It’s rather unnerving being dead, sir. This is the second time I've been buried in this war, and I can't get used to it." 

Alexander laughed. "Well, you'd belter dispose of this before someone gets the idea that they should keep it for the future." He held out a shiny plaque. It read, Dr. Jack Moffitt Anthropology. 1914·1942. 

Moffitt smiled wryly. "I think I'll donate it to one of the tin drives. sir. Make it into a bomb to drop on the Jerries." 

"Good idea." Alexander glanced over their shoulders at the plaque. "Do you know who he was?" 

“No. Do you?' Troy asked. 

Alexander shook his head. "I don't think I'll ever know. It's not important now. He did his job well." 

"All three Colonel Alexanders are here,” Tully said unexpectedly, staring at the plaque. "The living, the dead and the fake." 

Moffitt nodded. "The past, the present and the unknown. Everything taken care of, Colonel?" he asked delicately, alluding to the mission. 

"It's all been handled," Alexander said ambiguously. "We've found refuge for Sigrid and Goedhart, so they're safe. What are your plans. gentlemen?"' 

"We're going to London." Moffitt said, ignoring Troy's sharp gaze. "We have some leave coming and I've promised to show them the British Museum.”

"Like hell we're going there!" Hitchcock protested. "I want to see Piccadilly Circus.”

"Where the girls are," Tully chimed in brightly, 

Alexander grinned. "Watch out for the ladies, gentlemen. They can be as dangerous as the Jerries. Speaking of the Germans, did you hear what happened to Captain Dietrich?" 

Troy's head went up sharply. "Dietrich? What happened to him?" 

Alexander laughed. The sound reverberated off the stone walls. "He burned Susevend and deported all the civilians."

The four men looked stunned and shocked, not only at Dietrich's actions but at Alexander's reaction. "Deported?" Moffitt finally asked. 

"Yes, but it look him several days to round up the people, enough time for the Underground to mine the route that the train would take. They ambushed the train and freed the inhabitants," Alexander continued. "The town was demolished but the impression I have is that most of the natives consider that no loss.”

"Was Dietrich with the train, sir?" Troy asked suspiciously. 

Alexander grinned. "Herr Hauptmann isn't that stupid. Troy. He was safely reporting the 'scorched earth of Susevend to the authorities in Trondheim when the train was derailed. His lieutenant was apparently killed in the attack along with other guards but most of the civilians were freed." 

"Sir," Moffitt said, looking suspicious. "How did the Underground know the route of the train?" 

"Apparently. Dietrich was so incensed that he gave his orders in front of the civilians when he first arrived back in town," Alexander said blandly. his tone determinedly mild. “It was reported to the Underground." 

"Ah. He knew the Resistance would derail the train," Moffitt concluded, "and free the people." 

"Herr Dietrich was always reluctant to involve civilians, according to Miss Sigrid," Alexander agreed. "He had to retaliate for your killing Major Stahl, Troy!" 

Troy folded his arms. "How did his superiors take this, Colonel? I can't believe that he got away with it!' 

Alexander shrugged. "According to my sources, he was reassigned to Rommel's staff in France. Troy." 

"Probably romancing the ladies in Paris," Hitchcock said with a grin. "That explains why the Resistance just vanished, Troy. They were going after the train!" 

"I always wondered about that,” Tully added unexpectedly. "Makes sense." 

"Will we see you again, sir?" Troy asked. To his surprise, he found he missed the man. 

Alexander shook his head. "Unlikely, Sergeant, but who knows? The war has by no means ended. I might need a good team backing me up. Good luck, gentlemen.” 

They all saluted. Alexander walked away.

"Why did the Colonel come here, Sarge?" Hitchcock asked. 

Troy shrugged. "Finish things up. Who knows what he really had planned. Maybe to prove he was still alive to us. " 

"Maybe because of that," Tully said waving to the plaque that Moffitt carried. They looked puzzled. "Hey. he must have been the one who took it down. How else would he have it to give to you?" 

"That's very astute of you, Tully," Moffitt commented, eyeing the plaque. "Mother left out the war years. How like her." 

"Did you tell anyone you were corning down here?" Troy asked Moffitt. 

"I notified Father, of course," Moffitt replied. "Otherwise, he couldn't tell my mother." 

"Yeah," Tully muttered. "How'd your mother take it?" 

A muscle in Moffitt's cheek twitched. "Things haven't changed, Tully," 

Tully looked angry, “Sarge..” 

"'Can't choose your family. Just your friends," Hitchcock said sagely. 

They stared at him in surprise. "Gone philosophic?" Tully asked to cover the moment. 

"Hey, I took the course on that in the camp!" Hitchcock replied as lightly as he could. They laughed, and the tension broke, 

"Let's get out of here." Troy said firmly. The situation was too revealing and they didn't need to go any further. Troy had an idea of what it cost Moffitt to keep his composure, The price was too high. "If we're heading for London, we'd better shake it. I don't think the trains run as fast here as they do in the States." 

They all needed a drink, he concluded. Lots of liquor, dancing, watching movies. drinking. Everything they'd missed since they had all been thrown together as the Rat Patrol and sent out into the desert. Funny how war was; he'd probably never have even talked to Moffitt if they weren't working together. As for Hitchcock, Troy admitted that he was as close as family, and Tully was the reliable one. Thank God they'd come through this last mission alive. It had been too close. 

The others followed his lead. By the time they got outside, a staff car was driving away with Alexander and a civilian in the back. Williams waved.\, then sank back into the cushions, out of sight. Tully smiled. 

"You know, we're missing someone," Hitchcock commented cheerfully as they walked into the bright sunshine, A fat black and yellow bumblebee shot by them intent on a basket of white lilies left on a nearby grave. 

"Missing someone? Who?” Moffitt asked puzzled. 

"Dietrich," Troy replied. "Face it, he's as much a part of us as we are of him." 

“Yeah. but we give him more trouble than he does us," Hitchcock said ebulliently. The others grinned. 

"What do you think happened to him?" Tully asked. 

"We could have asked Alexander. I'm sure he could have told us," Troy commented. 

Hitchcock shook his head. "Let's not get involved with Alexander again. We'll all end up in Berlin digging him out of Gestapo headquarters!" 

Tully chuckled and punched Hitchcock on the arm. "Scared of a few Germans, Hitch?" 

"Nah! Bring 'em on, Sarge!" 

The four men laughed and headed for the train station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bibliography: 
> 
> Ronald H. Bailey. Prisoners ofWar, (New York: Time·Life Books, 1981) John R. Elting. BallIes for Scandinavia. (New York: Time-Life Books. 1981) Carol M. Highsmith and Ted Landphair, Embassies of Washington, (Washington. DC: Preservation Press, 1992) Russell Miller, The Commandos, (New York: Time-Life Books, 1981) Roar Hauglid. Norwegian Stave Churches, (Oslo: Dreyer Foriag, 1990) Stevenson, William, A Man Called Increpid. (New York: Ballantine, 1976) Eric Williams. The Escapers. (London: Fontana Books, 1963) Norman Polmar and Thomas B. Allen, World War II: The Encyclopedia of lhe War Years. 1941-1945, (New York: Random House, 1996) Marguerite Patten. We'll Eat Again: A collection of recipes from the war years, (London: Hamlyn. 1996) Fredric M. Miller and Howard Gillette, Jr., Washington Seen: A photographic history. 1875-1965. (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 1995) 
> 
>  
> 
> Fodor's Norway. 1992. Eyewitness Visual Dictionary of Military Uniforms, (New York: Darling Kindersley, 1 992) The Heel of the Conqueror, (New York: Time-Life Books, 1991) Stagg, Frank Noel. North Norway: A History. (London: George Allen & Unwin Ltd 
> 
> J.W. Cappelens, Arvid Bryne and Joan Henricksen, Norway: Behjnd the Scenery, (Oslo: Forlag AS, 1986) Susan Tyrrell. Ways of Norway: Rambling Through Past and Presence. (Oslo: Grondahl & Son ForlagA.S., 1984) Yechiam Halevy, Historical Arias of the Holocaust, (Washington: Macmillan Publishing, 1995)


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